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安徒生童话故事第10篇：幸运的套鞋The Goloshes of Fortune
引导语：安徒生童话故事第10篇：幸运的套鞋The Goloshes of Fortune
1.开 端
在哥本哈根东街离国王的新市场①不远的一幢房子里，有人开了一个盛大的晚会，因为如果一个人想被回请的话，他自己也得偶尔请请客才成呀。有一半的客人已经坐在桌子旁玩扑克牌，另一半的客人们却在等待女主人布置下一步的消遣：“唔，我们现在想点什么来玩玩吧!”他们的晚会只发展到这个地步，他们尽可能地聊天。在许多话题中间，他们忽然谈到“中世纪”这个题目上来。有人认为那个时代比我们这个时代要好得多。是的，司法官克那卜热烈地赞成这个意见，女主人也马上随声附和。他们两人竭力地反对奥尔斯德特在《年鉴》上发表的一篇论古代和近代的文章。
这篇文章基本上称赞现代。但司法官却认为汉斯②王朝是一个最可爱、最幸福的时代。
谈话既然走向两个极端，除了有人送来一份内容不值一读的报纸以外，没有什么东西打断它——我们暂且到放外套、手杖、雨伞和套鞋的前房去看一下吧。这儿坐着两个女仆人——一个年轻，一个年老。你很可能以为她们是来接她们的女主人——一位老小姐或一位寡妇——回家的。不过，假如你仔细看一下的话，你马上会发现她们并不是普通的佣人：她们的手很娇嫩，行动举止很大方。她们的确是这样;她们的衣服的式样也很特别。她们原来是两个仙女。年轻的这个并不是幸运女神本人，而是替女神传送幸运小礼物的一个女仆。年长的那个的外表非常庄严——她是忧虑女神。无论做什么事情，她总是亲自出马，因为只有这样她才放心。
她们谈着她们这天到一些什么地方去过。幸运女神的女仆只做了几件不太重要的事情，例如：她从一阵骤雨中救出了一顶崭新的女帽，使一个老实人从一个地位很高的糊涂蛋那里得到一声问候，以及其他类似的事情。不过她马上就要做的一件事情却很不平常。
“我还得告诉你，”她说，“今天是我的生日。为了庆祝这个日子，我奉命把一双幸运的套鞋送到人间去。这双套鞋有一种特性：凡是穿着它的人马上就可以到他最喜欢的地方和时代里去，他对于时间或地方所作的一切希望，都能得到满足;因此下边的凡人也可以得到一次幸福!”
“请相信我，”忧虑女神说，“他一定会感到苦恼。当他一脱下这双套鞋时，他一定会说谢天谢地!”
“你这是说的什么话?”对方说。“我现在要把这双套鞋放在门口。谁要是错穿了它，就会变得幸福!”
这就是她们的对话。
①这是哥本哈根市中心的一个大广场，非常热闹。
②汉斯(Hans，1455-1513)是丹麦的国王，1481年兼做瑞典的国王。
2.司法官的遭遇
时间已经不早了。醉心于汉斯的朝代的司法官克那卜想要回家去。事情凑巧得很：他没有穿上自己的套鞋，而穿上了幸运的套鞋。他向东街走去。不过，这双套鞋的魔力使他回到300年前国王汉斯的朝代里去了，因此他的脚就踩着了街上的泥泞和水坑，因为在那个时代里，街道是没有铺石的。
“这真是可怕——脏极了!”司法官说。“所有的铺道全不见了，路灯也没有了!”
月亮出来还没有多久，空气也相当沉闷，因此周围的一切东西都变成漆黑一团。在最近的一个街角里，有一盏灯在圣母像面前照着，不过灯光可以说是有名无实：他只有走到灯下面去才能注意到它，才能看见抱着孩子的圣母画像。
“这可能是一个美术馆，”他想，“而人们却忘记把它的招牌拿进去。”
有一两个人穿着那个时代的服装在他身边走过去了。
“他们的样子真有些古怪，”他说。“他们一定是刚刚参加过一个化装跳舞会。”
这时忽然有一阵鼓声和笛声飘来，也有火把在闪耀着。司法官停下步子，看到一个奇怪的游行行列走过去了，前面一整排鼓手，熟练地敲着鼓。后面跟着来的是一群拿着长弓和横弓的卫士。行列的带队人是一位教会的首长。惊奇的司法官不禁要问，这场面究竟是为了什么，这个人究竟是谁?
“这是西兰①的主教!”
“老天爷!主教有什么了不起的事儿要这样做?”司法官叹了一口气，摇了摇头。这不可能是主教!
司法官思索着这个问题，眼睛也不向左右看;他一直走过东街，走到高桥广场。通到宫前广场的那座桥已经不见了，他只模糊地看到一条很长的溪流。最后他遇见两个人，坐在一条船里。
“您先生是不是摆渡到霍尔姆去?”他们问。
“到霍尔姆去?”司法官说。他完全不知道他在一个什么时代里走路。”我要到克利斯仙码头、到小市场去呀!”
那两个人呆呆地望着他。
“请告诉我桥在什么地方?”他说。“这儿连路灯也没有，真是说不过去。而且遍地泥泞，使人觉得好像是在沼泽地里走路似的!”
的确他跟这两个船夫越谈越糊涂。
“我不懂得你们波尔霍尔姆的土话!”他最后生气地说，而且还把背掉向他们。他找不到那座桥，甚至连桥栏杆也没有了。
“这里的情形太不像话!”他说。他从来没有想到他的时代会像今晚这样悲惨。
“我想我还是叫一辆马车吧!”他想，可是马车到什么地方去了呢?——一辆也看不见。”我看我还是回到皇家新市场去吧，那儿停着许多马车;不然的话，我恐怕永远走不到克利斯仙码头了。”
现在他向东街走去。当他快要走完的时候，月亮忽然出来了。
“我的天，他们在这儿搭了一个什么架子?”他看到东门的时候说。东门在那时代恰恰是在东街的尽头。
最后他找到一个门。穿过这个门，他就来到我们的新市场，不过那时它是一片广大的草地，草地上有几簇灌木丛，还有一条很宽的运河或溪流在中间流过去。对面岸上有几座不像样的木栅，它们是专为荷兰来的船长们搭起来的，因此这地方也叫做荷兰草地。
“要么我现在看到了大家所谓的虚无乡，要么我大概是喝醉了，”司法官叹了口气说。“这到底是什么呢?这到底是什么呢?”
他往回走，心中想自己一定是病了。他在街上一边走，一边更仔细地看看街上的房子。这大多数都是木房子，有许多还盖着草顶。
“不成，我病了!”他叹了一口气。“我不过只喝了一杯混合酒!不过这已经够使我醉了;此外拿热鲑鱼给我们下酒也的确太糟糕。我要向女主人——事务官的太太抗议!不过，假如我回去，把实际情况告诉他们，那也有点可笑，而且他们有没有起床还是问题。”
他寻找这家公馆，可是没有办法找到。
“这真可怕极了!”他叫起来。“我连东街都不认识了。一个店铺也没有。我只能看到一些可怜的破屋子，好像我是在罗斯基尔特或林斯德特一样!哎呀，我病了!这没有什么隐瞒的必要。可是事务官的公馆在什么地方呢?它已经完全变了样子;不过里面还有人没睡。哎呀，我是病了!”
他走到一扇半开的门前，灯光从一个隙缝里射出来。这是那时的一个酒店——一种啤酒店。里面的房间很像荷尔斯泰因的前房②。有一堆人，包括水手、哥本哈根的居民和一两个学者坐在里面。他们一边喝酒，一边聊天。他们对于这位新来的客人一点也不在意。
“请您原谅，”司法官对着向他走来的老板娘说，“我有点不舒服!您能不能替我雇一辆马车，把我送到克利斯仙码头去?”
老板娘看了他一眼，摇摇头，然后用德文和他讲话。
司法官猜想她大概不会讲丹麦文，因此把他的要求又用德文讲了一遍。他的口音和他的装束使得老板娘相信他是一个外国人。她马上懂得了他有些不舒服，因此倒了一杯水给他喝。水很咸，因为那是从外边井里取来的。
司法官用手支着头，深深地吸了一口气，思索着在他周围所发生的一些怪事情。
“这是今天的日历吗?”当他看到老板娘把一大张纸撕掉的时候，为了要打破沉寂，他说。
她不懂得他的意思，不过她把这张纸递给了他。这是一张描绘诃龙城上空所常见的一种幻象的木刻。
“这是一张非常老的东西呀!”司法官说。他看到这件古物，感到非常高兴。“您怎样弄到这张稀有的古画的?虽然它代表一个寓言，但是它是非常有趣的!现在人们把这些常见的幻象解释成为北极光;可能它是由电光所形成的!”
坐在他身旁和听他讲话的人，都莫明其妙地望着他。其中有一位站起来，恭恭敬敬地摘下帽子，做出一种很庄严的表情，说：
“先生，足下一定是当代的一位大学者!”
“哦，岂敢!”司法官回答说，“我所了解的只不过是一知半解，事实上这些事情大家都应该知道的!”
“Modestia③是一种美德!”这人说。“不过我对于您的说法很觉得Mihisecusvidetur④;但我很希望能不下这个Judici-Um⑤。”
“请问我现在很荣幸地得以交谈的这位先生是作何贵干?”司法官问。
“敝人是一个神学学士。”这人回答说。
这句回答对于司法官说来已经够了，他的头衔与他的服装很相称。他想，这一定是一个老乡村教师——一位像我们在尤兰⑥还能碰得见的怪物。
“此地的确并不是LOCUSDOCENDI⑦，”这人说。“但我希望足下多发表一点意见来启发我们。足下的古典书籍一定读得不少。”
“唔，不错，”司法官说。“我是喜欢读有用的古典著作的;不过我也喜欢读近代的著作——只是《每日故事集》⑧是一本例外;老实讲，这类书我们太多了。”
“《每日故事集》?”我们的学士问。
“是的，我指的是一般的流行小说。”
“原来如此!”这人微笑了一下，“这些书写得很聪明，宫里的人都喜欢读。皇上特别喜欢读关于伊文及哥甸先生的传奇。这书描写亚瑟王及其圆桌骑士的故事。他常常跟大臣们把这故事作为谈笑的资料⑨。”
“这本书我倒还没有读过!”司法官说，“这一定是海贝尔格所出版的一本新书了。”
“不对，”学士说，“这书并不是由海贝尔格出版的，而是由高得夫里·冯·格曼⑩出版的。”
“真的?他就是作者本人吗?”司法官问。“这是一个很老的名字!这不也是丹麦第一个印刷所的名字吗?”
“是的，他是我国印刷业的始祖。”这人回答说。
谈话一直进行得还不坏。这时另外有一位开始谈到从前流行过一两年的瘟疫：他指的是1484年的那次瘟疫。司法官以为他是在谈霍乱病，所以他们的谈话还勉强可以进行下去。
1490年的海寇战争离那时还没有多久，因此他们自然也要谈到这个题目。他们说：英国的海盗居然从船坞里把船都抢走了。司法官亲身经历过1801年的事件，因此他也理直气壮地提出反英的意见。除此以外，谈话进行得可不太好：每一分钟总有一次抬杠。那位了不起的学士不禁有些糊涂起来：司法官的最简单的话语在他听来不是显得太粗鲁，就是太荒唐。他们互相呆望着。事情一僵的时候，学士就讲起拉丁文来。他以为这样别人就可以懂得他的话了;不过事实上这一点用也没有。
“现在您的感觉怎样?”老板娘问，把司法官的袖子拉了一下。
现在他恢复了记忆力：在他刚才谈话的时候，他把先前所发生的事情完全忘记了。
“我的天!我是在什么地方?”他说。他一想起这个问题就觉得头昏。
“我得喝点红葡萄酒!蜜酒和卜列门啤酒也好。”有一位客人说，“请您也来跟我们一起喝吧。”
这时两个女孩子走进来了，其中一个戴着一顶有两种颜色的帽子。她们倒出酒来，行了曲膝礼。司法官的背上冷了半截。“这是怎么一回事儿?”他说。但是他不得不和他们一起喝酒。他们对这位好先生非常客气，弄得他简直不晓得怎样办才好。有一个人说他醉了，他对这句话没有丝毫的怀疑，他要求他们替他喊一辆“德洛西基”⑾来。于是大家就以为他在讲莫斯科方言了。
他从来没有跟这样一群粗鲁和庸俗的人混在一起过。
他想：这真叫人相信这个国家退化到野蛮时代了。“这真是我一生中最可怕的时刻。”
不过，在这同时，他的灵机一动，想要钻进桌子底下，偷偷地爬到门那儿溜出去。但是当他刚刚一爬到门口的时候，别人就发现了他的活动。大家抱住他的双脚。这时，也算是他的运气，他的一双套鞋被拉掉了——因此整个的幻景也就消逝了。
司法官现在清楚地看见他面前点着一盏很亮的灯，灯后面有一幢大房子。他认识这房子和它周围的别的房子。这就是我们大家所知道的东街。他躺在地上，双脚正对着大门。看门人坐在他对面，在打盹。
“我的天!难道我一直是躺在街上做梦么?”他说。“是的，这是东街!真是光明快乐，丰富多采!可怕得很，那杯混合酒居然把我弄得那样醉!”
两分钟以后，他坐进了一辆马车，向克利斯仙码头驰去。
他把他刚才经历过的不安和苦恼思索了一下，他不禁衷心地称赞幸福的现实——我们所处的这个时代。我们这个时代虽然缺点不少，比起他刚才进入的那个时代究竟好得多。
你看，司法官的想法并不是没有道理的。
①丹麦全国分做三大区，西兰(Sjaelland)是其中的一区。
②石勒苏益格-荷尔斯泰因(Schteswig-Holstein)是德国北部的一个州。荷尔斯泰因的前房是一种宽大的房间，里面的陈设全是些粗大的家具、箱子和柜子等。
③拉丁文，“谦虚”的意思。
④拉丁文，“不以为然”的意思。
⑤拉丁文，“判断”的意思。
⑥尤兰(Jutland)是丹麦的一个省份。
⑦拉丁文，“文教地区”的意思。
⑧《每日故事集》(Hverdagshistorierne)是丹麦作家Gyllembourg Ehrensvurd的第一部小说。
⑨亚瑟王的圆桌骑士是在欧洲流传很广的关于一群骑士的冒险故事。这儿是指丹麦国王汉斯与他的一个喜欢读这故事的朝臣奥托·路德的一段对话。国王汉斯说：“这本书里所描写的伊文和哥甸先生真是了不起的骑士，像这样的骑士现在再也找不到了!”奥托·路德回答说：“如果还有像亚瑟王那样的国王，当然可以找到像伊文和哥甸那样的骑士的!'(见丹麦作家荷尔堡著《丹麦王国史》)
⑩这是汉斯王朝的丹麦第一个印刷匠。他在1495年出版的《丹麦诗韵》(Den Danske Rimkronike)是第一部用丹麦文印的书。
⑾“德洛西基”(Droshky)是过去俄国的一种马车。
3.守夜人的故事
“咳，这儿有一双套鞋!”守夜人说。“这一定是楼上的那位中尉的套鞋。恰恰放在门边!”
这位老实人倒是很想按按门铃，把套鞋交给原主的，因为楼上的灯还是亮着。不过他不愿意把屋子里的人吵醒，所以就不这样做了。
“穿上这样一双东西一定很暖和!”他说。“皮子是这样柔软!”鞋子恰恰适合他的脚。”这个世界也真是滑稽!中尉现在可能已经在他温暖的床上睡了，但是你相信他会睡吗?他正在房间里走来走去呢。他真是一个幸福的人!他既没有妻子，也没有孩子!他每天晚上总是去参加一个什么晚会。我希望我能像他，这样我也可以成为一个幸福的人了!”
当他说出了他的愿望以后，他所穿上的这双套鞋就立刻产生效果：这个守夜人在身体和思想方面就变成了那位中尉。他现在是在楼上的房间里，手指间夹着一小张粉红色的纸，纸上写的是一首诗——中尉亲手写的一首诗，因为人们在一生中谁都有过富有诗意的一瞬间。如果一个人把这一瞬间的思想写下来，那么他就可说是在作诗了。下面是中尉写的诗：
“让我发财吧!”
“让我发财吧!”我祈祷过好几次，
那时我不过是一两尺高的孩子。
让我发财吧!我要成一个军官，
戴上羽毛，穿起制服，挂上宝剑。
后来我居然也当上了军官，
可是很不幸，我一直没有发财!
上帝呀，请您伸出援助的手来!
有天晚上——我是既幸福又年青，
一个七岁的姑娘吻了我的嘴唇，
因为我是一个拥有故事和童话的富人，
可是说到钱财，我仍然是穷得要命。
不过孩子对于童话却非常欢迎，
所以我很富有，只是，唉，没有钱，
我们的上帝清清楚楚知道这一点!
我仍向上帝祈祷：”让我发财吧!”
那个七岁的姑娘现在已经长大。
她是那么美丽、聪明和善良;
唯愿她知道我心中对她的向往，
唯愿她对我好，像从前那样。
但是我很穷，不敢对她表示：
这就是我们的上帝的意旨!
只要我发财，过得舒服和愉快，
我也就不在纸上写下我的悲哀。
我热恋的人啊，如果你对我了解，
请读这首诗——它代表我的青春时代。
不过最好你还是对我不要了解，
因为我很穷，前途是一团漆黑——
愿我们的上帝祝福你!
是的，当一个人在恋爱的时候，他会写诗的，不过头脑清醒的人不至于把这种诗印出来罢了。这位中尉是正在恋爱和穷困之中，而且他的恋爱还是一个三角——也可以说是一个打碎了的幸福的四角的一半。中尉尖锐地感觉到自己的处境，因此他把头靠着窗框，深深地叹了一口气。
“街上那个穷苦的守夜人比我要快乐得多。他不知道我所谓的‘穷困’。他有一个家、一个老婆和许多孩子——他们为他的苦恼而流眼泪，为他的快乐而欢笑。啊!如果我能变成他，我会比现在要幸福得多，因为他的确比我幸福!”
在一瞬间，守夜人又恢复到守夜人的原状。原来他是由于“幸运的套鞋”的魔力才变成中尉的;我们已经知道他并不感到满意，而情愿回复他的本来面目。因此守夜人又变成了守夜人。
“这真是一个丑恶的梦!”他说，“但是也够滑稽。我觉得我曾经变成了楼上的中尉，但这并不是一件很痛快的事情。我想念我的老婆和孩子们，他们这时正准备着大批的吻，要把我亲个半死。”
他又坐下来，点点头。这梦并不马上在他的思想中消逝，因为他脚上仍然穿着那双套鞋。这时天上有一颗流星滑落下来了。
“它落下来了!”他说。”但是落也落不完的，多着呢。我倒想更仔细地瞧瞧这些东西，特别是这一轮月亮，因为它不会从手里滑走的。我的女人经常替一位大学生洗衣服，那位大学生常常说，我们死了以后，就从这颗星飞到那颗星。这话并不可靠，不过，假如真是这样，那倒也很妙。如果我能飞到那儿去，即使我的躯壳躺在楼梯上，我也不在乎。”
在这世界上，有些话我们说出来的时候，必须万分谨慎，尤其是当我们穿上了”幸运的套鞋”的时候。请听听发生在守夜人身上的故事吧。
就我们人说来，我们差不多都知道蒸汽输送东西是多么迅速;这种事我们已经在铁道上或在海上的轮船中试验过。但是跟光线的速度比起来，这不过只等于树懒①的动作或蜗牛的爬行罢了。光比最快的骏马还要快1900万倍，可是电的速度更要快。死不过是我们心中所受到的一种触电，被解放了的灵魂，骑在电的翅膀上，就可以远走高飞。太阳只须八分和几秒钟就可以走完将近两亿里的路程。灵魂骑上电力，要走同样的路程，只须几秒钟就够了。就解放了的灵魂说来，各种行星之间的距离，不会比我们住在同一城市中的朋友的房子之间的距离大，甚至于还不会比住在近邻的朋友的房子之间的距离大。不过在人间的世界里，除非我们像守夜人一样穿上了“幸运的套鞋”，我们的心一触电，我们就永远跟身体分家了。
在几秒钟之内，守夜人走了72.8万里，到月亮上面去了。我们知道，组成月球的物质比我们的地球要轻得多，而且还很柔软，像刚下的雪一样。他来到一群数不清的山组成的大环形山——我们早就在麦特勒博士②所绘的月球图上看到这些环形山——他来到其中的一座山上。你也看到过的吧?在这一环大山当中，有一个像锅一样的深坑，它凹下去有八九里深。坑下面有一个城市。它的形状很像装在玻璃杯里的水中的蛋白;这儿的尖塔、圆屋顶和像船帆一样的阳台，浮在透明的、稀薄的空气中，也是同样地轻，同样地白。我们的地球浮在他的头上像一个火红的大球。
他马上看见了许多的生物。这些东西无疑就是我们所谓的“人类”了，不过他们的样子跟我们显然不同。他们也说一种语言，但是谁也不能指望守夜人的灵魂能够听懂。但是他居然听懂了。
守夜人的灵魂懂得月球上居民的语言，而且懂得很透彻。关于我们的地球他们争论了一番，他们怀疑地球上能不能住人，地球上的空气对于聪明的月球上的居民说来一定是太厚，不适宜于居住。他们认为只是月球上才能有生物，而且月球才是最初人类所居住的地方。③
不过我们还是回到下界的东街去，看看守夜人的躯壳是怎样吧。
他坐在楼梯上，一点生气也没有。他的晨星④已经从他的手里落下来了，他的一双眼睛呆呆地盯着月亮，寻找他那个正在月亮里游览的诚实的灵魂。
“现在是几点钟了，守夜人?”一个路过的人问。不过守夜人一声也不回答。于是这人就轻轻地把他的鼻子揪一下，这使他失去了平衡。他的躯壳直直地倒下来——他死了。揪他鼻子的人这时感到非常害怕起来。守夜人是死了，而且也僵了。这事被报告上去，并且也经过了一番研究。第二天早晨这尸体被运到医院里去。
如果这灵魂回来而到东街去找它的躯壳，结果又找不到，那可真是一桩有趣的笑话啦!很可能它会先到警察署去，随后到户口登记处去，因为在这些地方他可以登记寻找失物。最后它可能会找到医院里去。不过我们也不必担心，当灵魂自己处理自己事情的时候，它是很聪明的。使得灵魂愚蠢的倒是这具躯壳。
我们已经说过，守夜人的躯壳已经被抬到医院里去了，而且还被运到洗涤间去了。人们在这儿要做的第一件事当然是先脱掉他的套鞋。这么一来，灵魂就回来了。它直接回到躯壳上来，这人马上就活转来了。他坦白地说这是他一生中最可怕的一夜。你就是送给他两块钱，他也不愿意再尝试这种事情。不过现在一切都已成了过去。
在这同一天，他得到许可离开医院，不过他的套鞋仍然留在那儿。
①这是中、南美洲所产的一种动物。它的举动迟钝，常常待在树上不动。
②麦特勒(Johan Heinrich von Madler，1794-1874)是德国的一位天文学家。
③这篇故事里关于月球上的事情是出于想象的，其实月球上没有水和空气，也没有生物和居民。
④这是守夜人用的一种木棒，它的头上有一颗木雕的晨星。
4.伟大的一刻、一次朗诵、一件极不平常的旅行
哥本哈根的每个居民都知道哥本哈根佛列得里克医院的大门的样子。不过，也许有少数不住在哥本哈根的人会读到这个故事，所以我们不妨把它描写一番。
医院是用一排相当高的栅栏和街道隔开的。不过这些粗铁杆之间的距离很宽，据说有些很瘦的实习医生居然能从栅栏中挤出去，而在外面溜达一番。身体最不容易挤出去的一部分是脑袋。在这种情形下，小脑袋是幸运的了——这也是世界上常见的事情。作为一个介绍，这叙述已经够了。
一个年轻的实习医生——此人的头脑从生理上说，是颇为伟大的——这天晚上恰巧值班。雨在倾盆地下着;不过，虽然有这种不便，他仍是想出去——哪怕出去一刻钟也行。他觉得自己没有把这事情告诉门房的必要，特别是他现在可以从栅栏中间溜出去。守夜人留下的那双套鞋正放在那儿。他做梦也没有想到这是一双“幸运的套鞋”。像这样的阴雨天，它们对他是很有用的，所以他就穿上了。现在的问题是：他能不能从这铁栅栏中间挤出去，因为他从来没有试过。现在他就站在这儿。
“我的天，我真希望能把头挤出去!”他说。虽然他的头非常笨重，但是他马上就轻松愉快地把头挤出去了。这大概是套鞋听懂了他的愿望的缘故。不过现在他的身躯也得挤出去才成。然而这却办不到。
“噢，我太胖了!”他说。“我起初还以为我的脑袋最糟糕哩!现在我的身体却挤不出去了。”
他现在又希望把头缩回来，可是行不通。他只能自由地动动脖子，别的都办不到，他当时的一个感觉是要发脾气，接着他的心情就低落到了零点。“幸运的套鞋”造成这样一个可怕的局面，而且不幸的是，他自己也没有产生一个解脱自己的愿望。没有。他只是想挣脱，结果是寸步难移。雨在倾盆地下着;街上一个人也没有。他的手又够不到门铃，那么他怎样能获得自由呢?他怕自己不得不在这儿待到第二天早晨。那时人们就可以去叫一个铁匠来，把栅栏锉断。不过这不是立即就可以办到的。对面学校的男孩子不久就要起床，水手区的居民也将会到来，特别来看他被圈在枷里的样子。这么一来，跑来看他的人比去年看角力比赛的人恐怕还要多了。
“哎呀!血冲进我的脑袋，我要发疯了!是的，我要发疯了!啊，我希望得到自由，那么我的头痛也就可以好了。”
这句话他应该早点说才好。他刚一说出了他的想法，他的脑袋就自由了。他赶快往里跑，“幸运的套鞋”所造成的这番恐怖已经把他的头弄昏了。
不过我们不要以为事情就这么完结。糟糕的事儿还在后面呢。
晚上过去了，第二天也接着过去了，谁也没有来寻找这双套鞋。
晚间加尼克街上的小剧场里有一个表演会，戏院里已经挤满了人。在节目中有一个新诗朗诵的项目。我们听吧。诗是这样的：
姨妈①的眼镜
我的祖母是出名的聪明，
在“古时候”她准会被烧焚②。
她知道古往今来的许多事情，
能看出下一年会有什么发生。
一直看到“第四十年”——真不简单，
但她对于这事总是秘而不宣。
明年究竟有哪些事情重要?
一点也不错，我都想知道：
我的命运、艺术、世事和国家，
但是我的祖母却一言不发。
我只好逼她，这办法倒生效：
她沉默一会，马上就发牢骚。
这牢骚简直等于对牛弹琴，
我是一个被她惯坏了的人!
“你的心愿这次我让你满足，”
她说，一面把眼镜交给我。
“拿着它随便到什么地方，
只要有许多上等人在场;
你可以随便观察什么人：
你看人只须用我的眼镜。
相信我的话吧，他们显出来
像摊在桌上被人玩的纸牌：
它们可以预言未来的事情。”
我说了声谢谢，就跑去实验，
但是，哪里有最多的人出现?
在朗利尼吗?这儿容易伤风。
在东街吗?咳!这儿泥泞太重!
在戏院吗?这地方倒很愉快，
它晚间的节目演得很不坏。
我来了!让我介绍我的姓名;
请准许我带来姨妈的眼镜
来瞧瞧你们——请不要走开!
我要看看你们像不像纸牌。
我凭纸牌预言我们时代的特点——
如果你们同意，你们就不必发言。
我感谢你们，我请你们吃饭，
我们现在可以来观看观看。
我要对你、我和王国作预言，
我们现在瞧瞧这纸牌上有什么出现。
(于是他戴上眼镜。)
嗨，一点也不错!我要大笑!
呀，假如你们能亲眼瞧瞧!
这儿花牌的数目真是不少，
还有美人，完全是一整套。
那些黑东西就是黑桃和梅花，
——我现在要仔细地观察一下。
我看到一位了不起的黑桃姑娘，
方块贾克占据了她的整个思想。
这景象真使我感到陶醉!
这家的钱财有一大堆，
还有客人来自世界各地，
但我们不一定感到兴趣。
至于国会?我们正有时间瞧瞧!
不过这类的事儿你将会读到。
我多讲话就会使报纸感到不安，
因为这样我就打破了他们的饭碗。
至于剧院?它的创造?趣味?格调?
不，我不愿跟经理把关系弄糟。
至于我的前途?这是自己的事情，
咳，你知道，我对于它是多么关心!
我观看——我不敢说出我看到了什么，
不过事情一发生你就会听到结果。
我们在这儿哪一位是最幸运?
最幸运?我们可容易得出结论!
这就是……不对，这容易引起反感!
也很可能弄得许多人不安!
谁活得最长?这位先生，还是夫人?
不成，这不是可以随便讲的事情!
我作预言吗?不好，不好，不好!
你看，我自己什么也不知道。
一开口就要得罪人，我真感到难办!
我还不如瞧瞧他们的思想和信念，
凭我全套预言的本领，再作一次发现。
各位相信吗?不，还是请各位发表意见。
各位心中有数：我们快要无结果而散。
你们都知道，我说的话全是无稽之谈。
可尊敬的列位，我要告辞，
我要感谢你们的好意。
这首诗念得非常好，朗诵者获得了极大的成功。实习医生也坐在听众之中。他似乎已经把他前天晚上的遭遇忘记得一干二净。他还是穿着那双套鞋，因为谁也没有来寻找它们。
街上既然很脏，它们对他仍然很有用处。
他似乎很喜欢这首诗。诗中的意思使他感到兴趣：他倒很想有这么一副眼镜呢。也许，一个人把它戴上，就可以看出别人的内心吧。因此他觉得，能够观察出人的心，比起能推测来年所要发生的事故来要有趣得多。未来的事情迟早总会知道，而人的内心却是永远没有办法推测的。
“我现在倒想看看坐在前一排的那些绅士和淑女们：假如一个人真能够直接进到他们心里去的话!是的，那一定是一个空洞，一种店铺之类的东西。咳，在这店铺里，我的眼睛可以痛快地张望一番!那位太太的心无疑地将会是一个大时装店!这位太太的心是一个空店，但把它扫空一次也没有什么害处。可是货物齐全的店铺大概也不少。啊，对了!”他叹了一口气，“我知道有一个店，里面全是头等的货色，不过它里面已经有了一个店员。这是它唯一的缺点!我从许多店里听到这么一句话：‘请进来吧!’啊，我希望我可以走进去，像一个小小的思想钻进心里去一样!”
他这种思想马上得到套鞋的反应。这位实习医生立刻就不见了;他在前一排坐着的观众的心里开始做了一个不平常的旅行，他所经过的第一颗心是一位太太的心。但是他立刻就觉得他走进一个畸形躯体的治疗所：在这里面医生取下身上的石膏模子，改正身体的形态。他现在就在这样的一个房间里，墙上挂着许多畸形肢腿的石膏模型。所不同的是，在治疗所里，模型是在病人来了以后才铸出来的;而在这颗心里，却是在没有病的人走了以后，才把这些模型铸出来和保存下来，因为这都是一些女朋友的模型——她们在生理上和心理上的缺陷都在这儿保存了下来。
他马上又钻进了另外一个女人的心里去。但是他觉得这颗心像一座神圣的大教堂;神龛里有一个纯洁的白鸽子在飞翔。他很自然地想跪下来，但是却不得不走开，到另一颗心里面去。他仍然能听到教堂琴楼里的琴声，同时他觉得自己已经变成一个更好、更新的人。他觉得自己并不是没有资格走进第二个圣殿里去——这是一个蹩脚的顶楼，里面住着一个生病的母亲。温暖的太阳光从窗子射进来，美丽的玫瑰花在屋顶上的一个小木箱里对她点着头，两只天蓝色的小鸟在唱着儿时的欢乐的歌，这时生病的母亲正在为她的女儿祈福。
现在他匍匐地爬进一个屠夫的摆满了东西的店里去。他所看到的只是肉，什么别的东西也没有。这是一位有钱有势的绅士的心，他的名字可以在名人录里找得到。
现在他钻进这位绅士的太太的心里去：这颗心是一个东倒西歪的旧鸽子笼。丈夫的肖像被当做一个风信鸽来使用。它安装在门上——这门随着丈夫的转动而开合。
于是他走进了一个全是镜子的小室——像我们常常在罗森堡宫殿中所看到的那种小室。不过这些镜子可以把形象放得特别大。在地中央，像达赖喇嘛一样，坐着房主人的渺小的”我”。他在欣赏着自己的伟大。
随后他觉得好像走进了一个装满了尖针的小针盒。他想：“这一定是一位老小姐的心了!”可是事实上并不是如此。这是一位戴着许多勋章的年轻军官——一个所谓好心肠的聪明人。
当这位实习医生从头排最后一个人的心里钻出来的时候，他颇感到有些儿混乱。他没有办法集中思想，他以为这是因为他的幻想太丰富，才会这样胡思乱想。
“我的老天爷!”他叹了一口气，“我一定快要发疯了。这儿热得要命：血都涌向我的脑子里来了!”这时，他忽然记起了头天晚上的事情：他的脑袋怎样被嵌在医院的栅栏的两根铁柱子中间，拔不出来。
“我的病一定是这样得来的，”他想。“我一定要早点想个办法。洗一次俄国澡可能有好处。我希望自己现在就躺在浴室最高的一层板上。”
马上他就躺在蒸气浴室的高板子上;不过他是穿着衣服、皮鞋和套鞋躺在那儿的。热烘烘的水点从天花板上滴到他的脸上。
“唏!”他叫起来，同时跳下来去洗淋浴。
侍者看见这样一位衣服整齐的人去洗淋浴，不禁大笑起来。
这位实习医生的神智还相当清楚，他说：“我为了打赌才这样做呀!”当他回到房间里去以后，他在颈项上贴了一块膏药，在背上也贴了一块膏药，想把他的疯狂吸收掉。
第二天早晨他感到背上非常酸痛——这就是他从“幸运的套鞋”那儿得到的收获。
①这首打油诗的标题是说姨妈(Moster)的眼镜，但诗中却又说是祖母(Bed-Stemoder)的眼镜。大概安徒生信手写来，把主题忘记了。
②在欧洲封建时代，巫婆被认为是魔鬼的使者，常常被放在柴堆上烧死。这儿是说，祖母太聪明了，会被人认为是巫婆。
5.一位录事的变化
那个守夜人，我们一定还没有忘记掉;他忽然记起了自己曾经看到、并且送进医院里去的那双套鞋。他现在来要把它们取走。不过，那位中尉既不接收它们，而街上也没有任何人认领。所以他只好把它们送到警察署去。
“这倒很像我的一双套鞋，”一位录事先生看到这双无人认领的东西时说。于是他把它们放在他自己的一双套鞋旁边。
“恐怕只有比鞋匠还锐利的眼睛才能把这两双套鞋区别开来。”
“录事先生，”一个听差的说，手中拿着几张文件。
录事掉过身来，跟这人说了几句话。他说完了以后，又掉过身来再看看这双套鞋。这时他就认不清究竟左手的一双是他的呢，还是右手的一双是他的。
“那打湿了的一双一定是我的，”他想。但是他的想法错了，因为这是“幸运的套鞋”。难道警察就不会把东西弄错吗?他把套鞋穿上，在衣袋里塞了几份文件，在胁下也夹了几份文件——因为他要带回家去读，以便摘出其中的要点。但是今天是星期天的早晨，而且天气很好。他想，到佛列得里克斯堡公园去散散步，对于身体是有好处的。因此他就去了。
你在什么地方也找不出这样一个安静和勤快的年轻人。我们很愿意叫他去散散步。他坐的时间太长，散散步对他是有好处的。起初他只是迈着步子，什么东西也不想，所以这双套鞋就没有机会来施展它的魔力了。
他在路上遇见一个熟人——一个年轻的诗人。这诗人告诉他说，他明天就要开始一个夏季旅行。
“咳，你又要走了吗?”录事说。“你是一个多么幸福和自由的人啊!你想到什么地方去就到什么地方去。像我们这样的人脚上都拖着链子。”
“而这链子是系在面包树上的!”诗人回答说。“但是你不须为将来担忧。等你老了，你就可以领到养老金呀!”
“比较起来，还是你痛快，”录事说。“坐下来写诗一定是极愉快的事情。大家都恭维你，同时你也是你自己的主人。啊，天天坐着背些法院里的琐碎文件，你试试看!”
诗人摇了摇头;录事也摇了摇头;每个人都保留着自己的意见。他们就这样分手了。
“诗人们都是一批怪人!”录事说。“我倒也希望进入到他们的境界里——自己也做一个诗人!我肯定不会像他们一样，光写些发牢骚的诗。对于一个诗人说来，今天是一个多么美丽的春天日子啊!空气是意外地新鲜，云彩是那么美丽，花木发出多么香的气息!是的，几年来我没有过像现在这一忽儿的感觉。”
我们已经知道，他成了一个诗人。这个改变的过程并不是很突然的;如果人们以为诗人跟别的人不同，那是很愚蠢的想法。在普通人当中，有许多人的气质比那些公认的诗人还更富有诗意呢。他们的差别是，诗人有更强的理智记忆力：他能牢牢地保持住感情和思想，直到它们清楚明白地形成字句为止，一般人是做不到这一点的。不过从一个平常的气质转变为一个天才，无论如何要算得是一个转变过程。录事现在就在经历这个过程。
“多么醉人的香气呵!”他说。“这真叫我想起洛拉姑姑家的紫罗兰来!是的，那是当我还是一个小孩子的时候闻到的!天啦，我好久没有想到这件事情!善良的老小姐!她住在交易所后面。不管冬天的气候是怎样寒冷，她总是在水里培养一根枝条和几根绿芽。当我把一个热铜板贴在结了冰花窗的玻璃上来融化出一个视孔的时候，看见她的紫罗兰盛开了。这是一个可爱的景象。外面的运河上，船只都冻结在冰里，船员们都离去了;只有一只尖叫的乌鸦是唯一留下的生物。后来，当春风吹起的时候，一切又活跃起来了。人们在欢呼和喊声中把冰层打开了;船也上了油，桅杆也配上了索具，于是它们便向海外的国家开去。但是我仍然留在这儿，而且永远留在这儿，坐在警察署里，让别人好领取护照到外国去旅行。这就是我的命运。啊，这就是生活!”
他深深地叹了一口气。但是他忽然又停住了，“我的天老爷!这是怎么一回事?我从来没有像现在这样的思想和感觉!这一定是春天的气息在作怪!它既使人激动，又使人感到愉快!”
他把手伸到衣袋里掏出文件。“这些东西现在可以分分我的心，”他说，同时让自己的眼睛在第一页上溜。“西格卜丽思夫人——五幕悲剧，”他念着。“这是怎么一回事?这还是我亲手写的字呢。难道我写了这部悲剧吗?散步场上的阴谋;或者，忏悔的日子——歌舞喜剧。我从什么地方弄到这些东西呢?一定是别人放进我的衣袋里的。现在又有一封信!”
是的，这是剧院的经理写来的。剧本被拒绝了，而且信里的字眼也很不客气。
“哼!哼!”录事说，同时在一个凳子上坐下来。他的思想是那么活跃，他的心是那么温柔。他不自觉地扯下长在近旁的一朵花。这是一朵很普通的小雏菊。一个植物学家要花几堂课才能对我们讲得清楚的东西，这朵花只须一分钟就解释清楚了。它讲出它出生的经过，它讲出太阳光的力量——太阳光使它细巧的叶儿展开，发出香气。于是他想起了生活的斗争;这斗争也同样唤醒我们胸中的情感。阳光和空气都是花儿的爱人，不过阳光是更被爱的一位。它把面孔掉向阳光，只有当阳光消逝了的时候，花儿才卷起叶子，在空气的拥抱中睡过去。
“只有阳光才使我显得漂亮!”花儿说。
“但是空气使你呼吸!”诗人的声音低语着。
他身旁站着一个小孩子，用一根棍子在一条泥沟里敲打，弄得几滴泥水溅到树枝上去了。于是录事就想到，水滴里几百万看不见的微生物也必定被溅到空中去了。依照它们体积的比例，它们的情形也正像我们人类被扔到高空中的云块里去一样。当录事想到这一点，以及他的思想中所起的整个变化的时候，他就微笑了。
“我是在睡觉，同时也是在做梦!一个人很自然地做起梦来，而同时又知道这是一场梦——这该是多么稀奇的事情啊!我希望明天醒来以后，还能把这一切记得清清楚楚。我有一种稀有的愉快的感觉。我现在什么东西都看得清楚!我觉得自己的头脑非常清醒!不过，我知道，明天如果我能记得某些情景的话，我一定会觉得这是幻想;但是我已经亲身体验过，一切聪明和美丽的东西，正如妖精藏在地底下的钱一样，人们只能在梦中听到和谈到。当一个人得到这些东西的时候，他是豪华和富贵的;不过在阳光下检查一下，它们就只是石头和干枯的叶子罢了。啊!”
他叹了一口气，颇有点牢骚的情绪。他把在树枝间跳跃着的、唱着歌的几只小鸟儿凝望了一阵，说：
“它们比我幸福得多。飞翔是一种愉快的艺术。那些生而就能飞的动物真是幸运!是的，如果我会变成任何东西的话，我就希望变成这样一只百灵鸟!”
不一会儿他的上衣后裾和袖子就联到一起，变成一双翅膀了。他的衣服变成了羽毛，套鞋变成了雀爪。他亲眼看到这变化的过程，他内心里不禁大笑起来。“唔，我现在知道了，我是在做梦，不过以前我从来没有梦得这么荒唐。”于是他飞到那些绿枝间去，唱起歌来。但是他的歌声中没有诗，因为他诗人的气质现在已经没有了。这双套鞋，像一个办事彻底的人一样，在一个固定的时间里只做一件事情。他希望做一个诗人，他就成了一个诗人了。现在他希望做一只小鸟;但是既然成了一只鸟，他以前的特点就完全消失了。
“这也真够滑稽!”他说。”白天我坐在警察署的枯燥乏味的公文堆里，夜间我就梦见自己在飞来飞去，成了佛列得里克斯堡公园里的一只百灵鸟。一个人倒真可以把这故事写成一部通俗的喜剧呢。”
现在他飞到草地上来了。他把头掉向四边望，同时用嘴啄着一根柔软的草梗。草梗与他的身体相比，似乎和北非洲棕榈树枝的长短差不多。
这一切不过是昙花一现而已。他的四周马上又变成了漆黑的夜。他似乎觉得有一件巨大的物体落到头上来——这是水手住宅区的一个孩子向这只百灵鸟头上抛过来的一顶大帽子。一只手伸进帽子里来了，把录事的背和翅膀抓住，弄得他不得不唧唧喳喳地叫起来。他感到一阵惊恐的时候，大声地叫道：
“你这个无礼的混蛋!我是警察署的书记呀!”
可是这声音在孩子的耳中听来只不过是一阵“唧唧!喳喳!”罢了。他在鸟儿的嘴上敲了两下，带着他走了。
在一个小巷里小孩碰见另外两个孩子。这两个人，就出身说，是属于受过教养的那个阶级的;可是就能力讲，他们是属于学校中最劣的一等。他们花了八个银毫把这只小鸟买走了。因此这位录事就被带回到哥本哈根，住进哥得街上的一个人家里去。
“幸好我是在做梦，”录事说，“否则我就真要生气了。起先我是一个诗人，现在我却成了一只百灵鸟!是的，这一定是诗人的气质使我转变成为这只小动物的。这也真算是倒霉之至，尤其当一个人落到小孩子手中去了的时候。我倒希望知道这会得到一个什么结果呢。”
孩子把他带到一个非常漂亮的房间里去。一个微笑着的胖太太向他们走来。她把这只百灵鸟叫做一只普通的田野小鸟，不过当她看到他们把它带来的时候，她并不感到太高兴。她只让这小鸟在这儿待一天，而且他们还得把它关进窗子旁的那只空笼子里去。
“也许它能逗得波贝高兴一下吧，”她继续说，望着一只大绿鹦鹉笑了一下。这鹦鹉站在一个漂亮铜笼子里的环子上，洋洋得意地荡来荡去。
“今天是波贝的生日，”她天真地说，“因此应该有一个普通的田野小鸟来祝贺他。”
波贝一句话也不回答;他只是骄傲地荡来荡去。不过一只美丽的金丝鸟——他是去年夏天从他温暖芬芳的祖国被带到这儿来的——开始高声地唱起来。
“多嘴的!”太太说，马上把一条白手帕蒙在笼子上。
“唧唧!吱吱!”雀子叹了一口气，”她又在大发雷霆。“叹了这口气以后，他就不再做声了。
录事——或者引用太太的话，一只田野的小鸟——是关在靠近金丝鸟的一个雀笼里，离鹦鹉也不远。波贝所会说的唯一的人话——而且这话听起来也很滑稽——是：“来吧，让我们像一个人吧。”他所讲的其他的话语，正如金丝鸟的歌声一样，谁也听不懂。只有变成了一只小鸟的这位录事，才能完全听懂他的朋友的话语。
“我在青翠的棕榈树下飞，我在盛开的杏树下飞!”金丝鸟唱着。“我和我的兄弟姐妹们在美丽的花朵上飞，在风平浪静的海上飞——那儿有植物在海的深处波动。我也看见许多可爱的鹦鹉，他们讲出许多那么长、那么有趣的故事。”
“这都是一些野鸟，”鹦鹉回答说。“他们没有受过教育。来吧，让我们像一个人吧——为什么不笑呢?如果太太和所有的客人们都能发笑，你也应该能发笑呀。对于幽默的事情不能领会，这是一个很大的缺点。来吧，让我们像一个人吧。”
“你记得那些美丽的少女在花树下的帐篷里跳舞吗?你记得那些野生植物的甜果子和清凉的果汁吗?”
“啊，对了!”鹦鹉说，“不过我在这儿要快乐得多。我吃得很好，得到亲热的友情。我知道自己有一个很好的头脑，我再也不需要什么别的东西了。让我们像一个人吧!你是人们所谓的一个富有诗意的人，但是我有高深的学问和幽默感。你有天才，可是没有理智。你唱着你那一套自发的高调，弄得人头昏脑涨，难怪人家要打你。人家却不能这样对待我，因为他们付出了更高的代价才得到我呀。我可以用我的尖嘴引起他们的重视，唱出一个‘味兹!味兹!味兹!’的调子!来吧，现在让我们像一个人吧!”
“呵，我温暖的、多花的祖国呵!”金丝鸟唱着。“我歌颂你的青翠的树林，我歌颂你的安静的海湾——那儿的树枝吻着平滑如镜的水面。我歌颂我的一些光彩的兄弟和姊妹的欢乐——他们所在的地方长着‘沙漠的泉水’①!”
“请你不要再唱这套倒霉的调子吧!”鹦鹉说。“唱一点能够叫人发笑的东西呀!笑声是智力发达的最高表现。你看看一只狗或一匹马会不会笑!不，它们只会哭;只有人才会笑。哈!哈!哈!”波贝笑起来，同时又说了一句老话：“让我们像一个人吧。”
“你这只灰色的丹麦小雀子，”金丝鸟说，“你也成了一个俘虏!你的森林固然是很寒冷的，但那里面究竟还有自由呀。快飞走吧!他们刚好忘记关你的笼子;上面的窗子还是开着的呀。飞走吧!飞走吧!”
录事就这样办了，他马上飞出笼子。在这同时，隔壁房间半掩着的门嘎吱地响了一下，一只家猫目光闪闪地偷偷走了进来，在他后面追赶。金丝鸟在笼里激动地跳着，鹦鹉拍着翅膀，同时叫着：”让我们像一个人吧。”录事吓得要死，赶快从窗子飞出去，飞过一些屋子和许多街道。最后他不得不休息一会儿。
对面的一幢房子他似乎很面熟。它有一个窗子是开着的，所以他就飞进去了。这正是他自己的房间，便在桌子上栖息下来。
“让我们像一个人吧!”他不知不觉地仿着鹦鹉的口气这样说了。在这同时，他恢复到他录事的原形。不过他是坐在桌子上的。
“我的天老爷!”他叫了一声，”我怎么到这儿来了，睡得这么糊涂?我做的这场梦也真够混乱。这全部经过真是荒唐透顶!”
①指“仙人掌”。
6.幸运的套鞋所带来的最好的东西
第二天大清早，当录事还躺在床上的时候，有人在他的门上轻轻地敲了几下。这是住在同一层楼上的一位邻居。他是一个研究神学的学生。他走进来了。
“把你的套鞋借给我穿穿好吗?”他说，“花园里很潮湿，但是太阳却照得非常美丽。我想在那儿抽几口烟。”
他穿上了套鞋，马上就到花园里去了。这儿只长着一棵李树和一棵梨树。就是这样一个小花园，在哥本哈根也是一件了不起的东西。
学生在小径上走来走去。这正是6点钟的时候。街上已经响起了邮差的号角声。
“啊，游历!游历!”他叫出声来。“这是世界上一件最快乐的事情!这也是我的最高愿望，我的一些烦恼的感觉，也就可以没有了。可是要游历必须走得很远!我很想去看看美丽的瑞士，到意大利去旅行一下，和——”
是的，很幸运，套鞋马上就发生了效力，否则他可能还想得更远，也使我们想得更远。他现在在旅行了。他和其他八位旅客紧紧地偎在一辆马车里，到达了瑞士的中部。他有点儿头痛，脖子也有点儿酸，脚也在发麻，因为套鞋把两只脚弄得又肿又痛。他是处在一个半睡半醒的状态之中。他右边的衣袋里装着旅行支票，左边的衣袋里放有护照，胸前挂着一个小袋，里面紧紧地缝着一些金法郎，他每次睡着的时候，就梦见这三样财产之中有一件被人扒走了。于是他就像在发热似的惊醒过来：他的第一个动作是用手做了一个三角形的姿势：从左摸到右，再摸到他的胸前，看看他的这些财产是不是还存在。雨伞、帽子和手杖在他头顶上的行李网里摇来摇去，几乎把人们的注意力从那些动人的风景吸引走了。
他望着窗外的风景，心里唱出至少一位我们认识的诗人曾经在瑞士唱过的、但是还没有发表过的歌来：
这风景很优美，正合我的心愿，
在这座可爱的勃朗峰①的面前。
待在这儿欣赏欣赏，很是痛快，
假如你带着足够的钱到这儿来。
周围的大自然是伟大、庄严、深沉的。杉树林看起来像长在深入云霄的石崖上的石楠花簇。现在开始下雪了，风吹得很冷。
“噢!”他叹了一口气，“如果我们在阿尔卑斯山的另一边，气候就应该是夏天了，同时我也可以把我的旅行支票兑出钱来了;我老是为这张纸担忧，弄得我不能享受瑞士的风景。啊，我希望我现在是在山的另一边!”
他马上就在山的另一边的意大利境内了——在佛罗伦萨和罗马之间。夕阳照耀下的特拉西门涅湖②，看起来像是青翠的群山中一泓金色的溶液。汉尼拔在这儿打败了佛拉米尼乌斯，葡萄藤在这儿伸出绿枝，安静地互相拥抱着;路旁一丛芬芳的桂树下有一群可爱的、半裸着的孩子在放牧一群黑炭一般的猪。假如我们能把这风景描绘出来，大家一定要欢呼：“美丽的意大利!”但是这位神学学生和马车里的任何客人都没有说出这句话。
有毒的苍蝇和蚊蚋成千成万地向车里飞来。他们用桃金娘的枝条在空中乱打了一阵，但苍蝇照旧叮着他们。车里没有一个人的脸不发肿，不被咬得流血。那几匹可怜的马儿，看起来简直像死尸。苍蝇蜂拥似的叮着它们。只有当车夫走下来，把这些虫子赶掉以后，情况才好转了几分钟。
现在太阳落下来了。一阵短促的、可是冰凉的寒气透过了整个的大自然。这一点也不使人感到痛快，不过四周的山丘和云块这时染上了一层最美丽的绿色，既清爽，又光洁——是的，你亲眼去看一下吧，这会比读游记要好得多!这真是美，旅行的人也都体会到这一点，不过——大家的肚皮都空了，身体也倦了，每一颗心只希望找一个宿夜的地方。但是怎样才能达到这个目的呢?大家的心思都花在这个问题上，而没有去看这美丽的大自然。
路伸向一个橄榄林：这使人觉得好像是在家乡多结的柳树之间经过似的。正在这块地方有一座孤零零的旅店。有一打左右的残废的乞丐守在它面前。他们之中最活泼的一位看起来很像饥饿之神的、已经成年的长子。其余的不是瞎子就是跛子，所以他们得用手来爬行。另外有些人手臂发育不全，手上连手指也没有。这真是一群穿上了褴褛衣服的穷困的化身。
“老爷，可怜可怜穷人吧!”他们叹息着，同时伸出残废的手来。
旅店的老板娘，打着一双赤脚，头发乱蓬蓬的，只穿着一件很脏的紧身上衣，来接待这些客人进来。门是用绳子系住的;房间的地上铺着砖，可是有一半已经被翻起来了。蝙蝠在屋顶下面飞，而且还有一股气味——
“好吧，请在马厩里开饭吧!”旅客中有一位说，“那儿人们起码可以知道他所呼吸的是什么东西。”
窗子都大开着，好让新鲜空气流进来，不过，比空气还要快的是伸进来的一些残废的手臂和一个老不变的声音：“老爷，可怜可怜穷人吧!”墙上有许多题词，但一半以上是对“美丽的意大利”不利的。
晚饭开出来了。这是一碗清水淡汤，加了一点调味的胡椒和发臭的油。凉拌生菜里也是这同样的油。发霉的鸡蛋和烤鸡冠算是两样最好的菜。就连酒都有一种怪味——它是一种可怕的混合物。
晚间大家搬来一堆箱子放在门后挡着门，并且选出一个人来打更，好使其余的人能睡觉。那位神学学生就成了更夫。啊，这儿是多么沉闷啊!热气在威逼着人，蚊蚋在嗡嗡地叫，在刺着人。外边的穷人们在梦中哭泣。
“是的，游历是很愉快的，”神学学生叹了一口气说，“我只希望一个人没有身躯!我希望身躯能躺着不动，让心灵去遨游!无论我到什么地方去，我总觉得缺乏一件什么东西，使我的心不快——我所希望的是一件比此刻还要好的什么东西。是的，某种更美好的东西——最好的东西。不过这在什么地方呢?这究竟是什么呢?在我心里，我知道我要的是什么东西：我想要达到一个幸运的目的——一个最幸运的目的!”
他一说完这话，就回到自己的家里来了。长长的白窗帘挂在窗上，屋子中央停着一具漆黑的棺材。他是在死的睡眠中，在这棺材里面，他的愿望达到了：他的身躯在休息，他的精神在遨游。索龙③曾说过：任何人在还没有进棺材以前，不能算是快乐的。这句话现在又重新得到了证实。
每具尸体是一个不灭的斯芬克斯④。现在躺在我们面前这个黑棺材里的斯芬克斯所能讲的也不外乎活人在两天前所写下的这段话：
坚强的死神呵!你的沉默引起我们的害怕，教堂墓地的坟墓是您留下的唯一记号。
难道我的灵魂已经从雅各的梯子跌下，
只能在死神的花园⑤里变成荒草?
世人看不见我们最大的悲凄!
啊你!你是孤独的，一直到最后。
这颗心在世上所受到的压力，
超过堆在你的棺材上的泥土!
这屋子里有两个人影在活动。她们两人我们都认识：一位是忧虑的女神，一位是幸运的使者。她们在死人身上弯下腰来察看。
“你看到没有?”忧虑的女神说，“你的套鞋带给了人间什么幸福?”
“最低限度它把一项持久的好处带给在这儿睡着的人。”
幸运的使者说。
“哦，你错了!”忧虑的女神说，“他是自动去的，死神并没有召他去。他还没有足够的精神力量去完成他命中注定要完成的任务!我现在要帮他一点忙。”
于是她把他脚上的那双套鞋拉下来。死的睡眠因而也就中止了。这位复苏的人站起来。忧虑的女神走了，那双套鞋也不见了;无疑地，她认为这双套鞋是她自己的财产。
①勃朗峰(Mont-Blanc)是欧洲南部的阿尔卑斯山脉的主峰，在法国和意大利之间，高达4807米。
②特拉西门涅湖是意大利中部的一个大湖，公元217年，原来驻扎在西班牙的迦太基军队，在汉尼拔将军领导下，在这里打败了罗马帝国的大将佛拉米尼乌斯(Ellaminius)。
③索龙(Solon，公元前633-前559)是古代希腊七大智者之一。
④斯芬克斯是指希腊神话中的一个怪物。它的头像女人，身体像狮子，还有两个翅膀。它对路过的人总是问一个富有哲学意味的谜语，猜不出的人就被它吞掉。
⑤指墓地。
幸运的套鞋英文版：
The Goloshes of Fortune
A Beginning
IN a house in Copenhagen, not far from the king’s new market, a very large party had assembled, the host and his family expecting, no doubt, to receive invitations in return. One half of the company were already seated at the card-tables, the other half seemed to be waiting the result of their hostess’s question, “Well, how shall we amuse ourselves?”
Conversation followed, which, after a while, began to prove very entertaining. Among other subjects, it turned upon the events of the middle ages, which some persons maintained were more full of interest than our own times. Counsellor Knapp defended this opinion so warmly that the lady of the house immediately went over to his side, and both exclaimed against Oersted’s Essays on Ancient and Modern Times, in which the preference is given to our own. The counsellor considered the times of the Danish king, Hans,1 as the noblest and happiest.
The conversation on this topic was only interrupted for a moment by the arrival of a newspaper, which did not, however, contain much worth reading, and while it is still going on we will pay a visit to the ante-room, in which cloaks, sticks, and goloshes were carefully placed. Here sat two maidens, one young, and the other old, as if they had come and were waiting to accompany their mistresses home; but on looking at them more closely, it could easily be seen that they were no common servants. Their shapes were too graceful, their complexions too delicate, and the cut of their dresses much too elegant. They were two fairies. The younger was not Fortune herself, but the chambermaid of one of Fortune’s attendants, who carries about her more trifling gifts. The elder one, who was named Care, looked rather gloomy; she always goes about to perform her own business in person; for then she knows it is properly done. They were telling each other where they had been during the day. The messenger of Fortune had only transacted a few unimportant matters; for instance, she had preserved a new bonnet from a shower of rain, and obtained for an honest man a bow from a titled nobody, and so on; but she had something extraordinary to relate, after all.
“I must tell you,” said she, “that to-day is my birthday; and in honor of it I have been intrusted with a pair of goloshes, to introduce amongst mankind. These goloshes have the property of making every one who puts them on imagine himself in any place he wishes, or that he exists at any period. Every wish is fulfilled at the moment it is expressed, so that for once mankind have the chance of being happy.”
“No,” replied Care; “you may depend upon it that whoever puts on those goloshes will be very unhappy, and bless the moment in which he can get rid of them.”
“What are you thinking of?” replied the other. “Now see; I will place them by the door; some one will take them instead of his own, and he will be the happy man.”
This was the end of their conversation.
What Happened to the Counsellor
IT was late when Counsellor Knapp, lost in thought about the times of King Hans, desired to return home; and fate so ordered it that he put on the goloshes of Fortune instead of his own, and walked out into the East Street. Through the magic power of the goloshes, he was at once carried back three hundred years, to the times of King Hans, for which he had been longing when he put them on. Therefore he immediately set his foot into the mud and mire of the street, which in those days possessed no pavement.
“Why, this is horrible; how dreadfully dirty it is!” said the counsellor; “and the whole pavement has vanished, and the lamps are all out.”
The moon had not yet risen high enough to penetrate the thick foggy air, and all the objects around him were confused together in the darkness. At the nearest corner, a lamp hung before a picture of the Madonna; but the light it gave was almost useless, for he only perceived it when he came quite close and his eyes fell on the painted figures of the Mother and Child.
“That is most likely a museum of art,” thought he, “and they have forgotten to take down the sign.”
Two men, in the dress of olden times, passed by him.
“What odd figures!” thought he; “they must be returning from some masquerade.”
Suddenly he heard the sound of a drum and fifes, and then a blazing light from torches shone upon him. The counsellor stared with astonishment as he beheld a most strange procession pass before him. First came a whole troop of drummers, beating their drums very cleverly; they were followed by life-guards, with longbows and crossbows. The principal person in the procession was a clerical-looking gentleman. The astonished counsellor asked what it all meant, and who the gentleman might be.
“That is the bishop of Zealand.”
“Good gracious!” he exclaimed; “what in the world has happened to the bishop? what can he be thinking about?” Then he shook his head and said, “It cannot possibly be the bishop himself.”
While musing on this strange affair, and without looking to the right or left, he walked on through East Street and over Highbridge Place. The bridge, which he supposed led to Palace Square, was nowhere to be found; but instead, he saw a bank and some shallow water, and two people, who sat in a boat.
“Does the gentleman wish to be ferried over the Holm?” asked one.
“To the Holm!” exclaimed the counsellor, not knowing in what age he was now existing; “I want to go to Christian’s Haven, in Little Turf Street.” The men stared at him. “Pray tell me where the bridge is!” said he. “It is shameful that the lamps are not lighted here, and it is as muddy as if one were walking in a marsh.” But the more he talked with the boatmen the less they could understand each other.
“I don’t understand your outlandish talk,” he cried at last, angrily turning his back upon them. He could not, however, find the bridge nor any railings.
“What a scandalous condition this place is in,” said he; never, certainly, had he found his own times so miserable as on this evening. “I think it will be better for me to take a coach; but where are they?” There was not one to be seen! “I shall be obliged to go back to the king’s new market,” said he, “where there are plenty of carriages standing, or I shall never reach Christian’s Haven.” Then he went towards East Street, and had nearly passed through it, when the moon burst forth from a cloud.
“Dear me, what have they been erecting here?” he cried, as he caught sight of the East gate, which in olden times used to stand at the end of East Street. However, he found an opening through which he passed, and came out upon where he expected to find the new market. Nothing was to be seen but an open meadow, surrounded by a few bushes, through which ran a broad canal or stream. A few miserable-looking wooden booths, for the accommodation of Dutch watermen, stood on the opposite shore.
“Either I behold a fata morgana, or I must be tipsy,” groaned the counsellor. “What can it be? What is the matter with me?” He turned back in the full conviction that he must be ill. In walking through the street this time, he examined the houses more closely; he found that most of them were built of lath and plaster, and many had only a thatched roof.
“I am certainly all wrong,” said he, with a sigh; “and yet I only drank one glass of punch. But I cannot bear even that, and it was very foolish to give us punch and hot salmon; I shall speak about it to our hostess, the agent’s lady. Suppose I were to go back now and say how ill I feel, I fear it would look so ridiculous, and it is not very likely that I should find any one up.” Then he looked for the house, but it was not in existence.
“This is really frightful; I cannot even recognize East Street. Not a shop to be seen; nothing but old, wretched, tumble-down houses, just as if I were at Roeskilde or Ringstedt. Oh, I really must be ill! It is no use to stand upon ceremony. But where in the world is the agent’s house. There is a house, but it is not his; and people still up in it, I can hear. Oh dear! I certainly am very queer.” As he reached the half-open door, he saw a light and went in. It was a tavern of the olden times, and seemed a kind of beershop. The room had the appearance of a Dutch interior. A number of people, consisting of seamen, Copenhagen citizens, and a few scholars, sat in deep conversation over their mugs, and took very little notice of the new comer.
“Pardon me,” said the counsellor, addressing the landlady, “I do not feel quite well, and I should be much obliged if you will send for a fly to take me to Christian’s Haven.” The woman stared at him and shook her head. Then she spoke to him in German. The counsellor supposed from this that she did not understand Danish; he therefore repeated his request in German. This, as well as his singular dress, convinced the woman that he was a foreigner. She soon understood, however, that he did not find himself quite well, and therefore brought him a mug of water. It had something of the taste of seawater, certainly, although it had been drawn from the well outside. Then the counsellor leaned his head on his hand, drew a deep breath, and pondered over all the strange things that had happened to him.
“Is that to-day’s number of the Day?”2 he asked, quite mechanically, as he saw the woman putting by a large piece of paper. She did not understand what he meant, but she handed him the sheet; it was a woodcut, representing a meteor, which had appeared in the town of Cologne.
“That is very old,” said the counsellor, becoming quite cheerful at the sight of this antique drawing. “Where did you get this singular sheet? It is very interesting, although the whole affair is a fable. Meteors are easily explained in these days; they are northern lights, which are often seen, and are no doubt caused by electricity.”
Those who sat near him, and heard what he said, looked at him in great astonishment, and one of them rose, took off his hat respectfully, and said in a very serious manner, “You must certainly be a very learned man, monsieur.”
“Oh no,” replied the counsellor; “I can only discourse on topics which every one should understand.”
“Modestia is a beautiful virtue,” said the man. “Moreover, I must add to your speech mihi secus videtur; yet in this case I would suspend myjudicium”.
“May I ask to whom I have the pleasure of speaking?”
“I am a Bachelor of Divinity,” said the man. This answer satisfied the counsellor. The title agreed with the dress.
“This is surely,” thought he, “an old village schoolmaster, a perfect original, such as one meets with sometimes even in Jutland.”
“This is not certainly a locus docendi,” began the man; “still I must beg you to continue the conversation. You must be well read in ancient lore.”
“Oh yes,” replied the counsellor; “I am very fond of reading useful old books, and modern ones as well, with the exception of every-day stories, of which we really have more than enough.”
“Every-day stories?” asked the bachelor.
“Yes, I mean the new novels that we have at the present day.”
“Oh,” replied the man, with a smile; “and yet they are very witty, and are much read at Court. The king likes especially the romance of Messeurs Iffven and Gaudian, which describes King Arthur and his knights of the round table. He has joked about it with the gentlemen of his Court.”
“Well, I have certainly not read that,” replied the counsellor. “I suppose it is quite new, and published by Heiberg.”
“No,” answered the man, “it is not by Heiberg; Godfred von Gehman brought it out.”
“Oh, is he the publisher? That is a very old name,” said the counsellor; “was it not the name of the first publisher in Denmark?”
“Yes; and he is our first printer and publisher now,” replied the scholar.
So far all had passed off very well; but now one of the citizens began to speak of a terrible pestilence which had been raging a few years before, meaning the plague of 1484. The counsellor thought he referred to the cholera, and they could discuss this without finding out the mistake. The war in 1490 was spoken of as quite recent. The English pirates had taken some ships in the Channel in 1801, and the counsellor, supposing they referred to these, agreed with them in finding fault with the English. The rest of the talk, however, was not so agreeable; every moment one contradicted the other. The good bachelor appeared very ignorant, for the simplest remark of the counsellor seemed to him either too bold or too fantastic. They stared at each other, and when it became worse the bachelor spoke in Latin, in the hope of being better understood; but it was all useless.
“How are you now?” asked the landlady, pulling the counsellor’s sleeve.
Then his recollection returned to him. In the course of conversation he had forgotten all that had happened previously.
“Goodness me! where am I?” said he. It bewildered him as he thought of it.
“We will have some claret, or mead, or Bremen beer,” said one of the guests; “will you drink with us?”
Two maids came in. One of them had a cap on her head of two colors.3 They poured out the wine, bowed their heads, and withdrew.
The counsellor felt a cold shiver run all over him. “What is this? what does it mean?” said he; but he was obliged to drink with them, for they overpowered the good man with their politeness. He became at last desperate; and when one of them said he was tipsy, he did not doubt the man’s word in the least—only begged them to get a droschky; and then they thought he was speaking the Muscovite language. Never before had he been in such rough and vulgar company. “One might believe that the country was going back to heathenism,” he observed. “This is the most terrible moment of my life.”
Just then it came into his mind that he would stoop under the table, and so creep to the door. He tried it; but before he reached the entry, the rest discovered what he was about, and seized him by the feet, when, luckily for him, off came the goloshes, and with them vanished the whole enchantment. The counsellor now saw quite plainly a lamp, and a large building behind it; everything looked familiar and beautiful. He was in East Street, as it now appears; he lay with his legs turned towards a porch, and just by him sat the watchman asleep.
“Is it possible that I have been lying here in the street dreaming?” said he. “Yes, this is East Street; how beautifully bright and gay it looks! It is quite shocking that one glass of punch should have upset me like this.”
Two minutes afterwards he sat in a droschky, which was to drive him to Christian’s Haven. He thought of all the terror and anxiety which he had undergone, and felt thankful from his heart for the reality and comfort of modern times, which, with all their errors, were far better than those in which he so lately found himself.
The Watchman’s Adventures
WELL, I declare, there lies a pair of goloshes,” said the watchman. “No doubt, they belong to the lieutenant who lives up stairs. They are lying just by his door.” Gladly would the honest man have rung, and given them in, for a light was still burning, but he did not wish to disturb the other people in the house; so he let them lie. “These things must keep the feet very warm,” said he; “they are of such nice soft leather.” Then he tried them on, and they fitted his feet exactly. “Now,” said he, “how droll things are in this world! There’s that man can lie down in his warm bed, but he does not do so. There he goes pacing up and down the room. He ought to be a happy man. He has neither wife nor children, and he goes out into company every evening. Oh, I wish I were he; then I should be a happy man.”
As he uttered this wish, the goloshes which he had put on took effect, and the watchman at once became the lieutenant. There he stood in his room, holding a little piece of pink paper between his fingers, on which was a poem,—a poem written by the lieutenant himself. Who has not had, for once in his life, a moment of poetic inspiration? and at such a moment, if the thoughts are written down, they flow in poetry. The following verses were written on the pink paper:—
“OH WERE I RICH!
“Oh were I rich! How oft, in youth’s bright hour,
When youthful pleasures banish every care,
I longed for riches but to gain a power,
The sword and plume and uniform to wear!
The riches and the honor came for me;
Yet still my greatest wealth was poverty:
Ah, help and pity me!
“Once in my youthful hours, when gay and free,
A maiden loved me; and her gentle kiss,
Rich in its tender love and purity,
Taught me, alas! too much of earthly bliss.
Dear child! She only thought of youthful glee;
She loved no wealth, but fairy tales and me.
Thou knowest: ah, pity me!
“Oh were I rich! again is all my prayer:
That child is now a woman, fair and free,
As good and beautiful as angels are.
Oh, were I rich in lovers’ poetry,
To tell my fairy tale, love’s richest lore!
But no; I must be silent—I am poor.
Ah, wilt thou pity me?
“Oh were I rich in truth and peace below,
I need not then my poverty bewail.
To thee I dedicate these lines of woe;
Wilt thou not understand the mournful tale?
A leaf on which my sorrows I relate—
Dark story of a darker night of fate.
Ah, bless and pity me!”
“Well, yes; people write poems when they are in love, but a wise man will not print them. A lieutenant in love, and poor. This is a triangle, or more properly speaking, the half of the broken die of fortune.” The lieutenant felt this very keenly, and therefore leaned his head against the window-frame, and sighed deeply. “The poor watchman in the street,” said he, “is far happier than I am. He knows not what I call poverty. He has a home, a wife and children, who weep at his sorrow and rejoice at his joy. Oh, how much happier I should be could I change my being and position with him, and pass through life with his humble expectations and hopes! Yes, he is indeed happier than I am.”
At this moment the watchman again became a watchman; for having, through the goloshes of Fortune, passed into the existence of the lieutenant, and found himself less contented than he expected, he had preferred his former condition, and wished himself again a watchman. “That was an ugly dream,” said he, “but droll enough. It seemed to me as if I were the lieutenant up yonder, but there was no happiness for me. I missed my wife and the little ones, who are always ready to smother me with kisses.” He sat down again and nodded, but he could not get the dream out of his thoughts, and he still had the goloshes on his feet. A falling star gleamed across the sky. “There goes one!” cried he. “However, there are quite enough left; I should very much like to examine these a little nearer, especially the moon, for that could not slip away under one’s hands. The student, for whom my wife washes, says that when we die we shall fly from one star to another. If that were true, it would be very delightful, but I don’t believe it. I wish I could make a little spring up there now; I would willingly let my body lie here on the steps.”
There are certain things in the world which should be uttered very cautiously; doubly so when the speaker has on his feet the goloshes of Fortune. Now we shall hear what happened to the watchman.
Nearly every one is acquainted with the great power of steam; we have proved it by the rapidity with which we can travel, both on a railroad or in a steamship across the sea. But this speed is like the movements of the sloth, or the crawling march of the snail, when compared to the swiftness with which light travels; light flies nineteen million times faster than the fleetest race-horse, and electricity is more rapid still. Death is an electric shock which we receive in our hearts, and on the wings of electricity the liberated soul flies away swiftly, the light from the sun travels to our earth ninety-five millions of miles in eight minutes and a few seconds; but on the wings of electricity, the mind requires only a second to accomplish the same distance. The space between the heavenly bodies is, to thought, no farther than the distance which we may have to walk from one friend’s house to another in the same town; yet this electric shock obliges us to use our bodies here below, unless, like the watchman, we have on the goloshes of Fortune.
In a very few seconds the watchman had travelled more than two hundred thousand miles to the moon, which is formed of a lighter material than our earth, and may be said to be as soft as new fallen snow. He found himself on one of the circular range of mountains which we see represented in Dr. Madler’s large map of the moon. The interior had the appearance of a large hollow, bowl-shaped, with a depth about half a mile from the brim. Within this hollow stood a large town; we may form some idea of its appearance by pouring the white of an egg into a glass of water. The materials of which it was built seemed just as soft, and pictured forth cloudy turrets and sail-like terraces, quite transparent, and floating in the thin air. Our earth hung over his head like a great dark red ball. Presently he discovered a number of beings, which might certainly be called men, but were very different to ourselves. A more fantastical imagination than Herschel’s must have discovered these. Had they been placed in groups, and painted, it might have been said, “What beautiful foliage!” They had also a language of their own. No one could have expected the soul of the watchman to understand it, and yet he did understand it, for our souls have much greater capabilities then we are inclined to believe. Do we not, in our dreams, show a wonderful dramatic talent? each of our acquaintance appears to us then in his own character, and with his own voice; no man could thus imitate them in his waking hours. How clearly, too, we are reminded of persons whom we have not seen for many years; they start up suddenly to the mind’s eye with all their peculiarities as living realities. In fact, this memory of the soul is a fearful thing; every sin, every sinful thought it can bring back, and we may well ask how we are to give account of “every idle word” that may have been whispered in the heart or uttered with the lips. The spirit of the watchman therefore understood very well the language of the inhabitants of the moon. They were disputing about our earth, and doubted whether it could be inhabited. The atmosphere, they asserted, must be too dense for any inhabitants of the moon to exist there. They maintained that the moon alone was inhabited, and was really the heavenly body in which the old world people lived. They likewise talked politics.
But now we will descend to East Street, and see what happened to the watchman’s body. He sat lifeless on the steps. His staff had fallen out of his hand, and his eyes stared at the moon, about which his honest soul was wandering.
“What is it o’clock, watchman?” inquired a passenger. But there was no answer from the watchman.
The man then pulled his nose gently, which caused him to lose his balance. The body fell forward, and lay at full length on the ground as one dead.
All his comrades were very much frightened, for he seemed quite dead; still they allowed him to remain after they had given notice of what had happened; and at dawn the body was carried to the hospital. We might imagine it to be no jesting matter if the soul of the man should chance to return to him, for most probably it would seek for the body in East Street without being able to find it. We might fancy the soul inquiring of the police, or at the address office, or among the missing parcels, and then at length finding it at the hospital. But we may comfort ourselves by the certainty that the soul, when acting upon its own impulses, is wiser than we are; it is the body that makes it stupid.
As we have said, the watchman’s body had been taken to the hospital, and here it was placed in a room to be washed. Naturally, the first thing done here was to take off the goloshes, upon which the soul was instantly obliged to return, and it took the direct road to the body at once, and in a few seconds the man’s life returned to him. He declared, when he quite recovered himself, that this had been the most dreadful night he had ever passed; not for a hundred pounds would he go through such feelings again. However, it was all over now.
The same day he was allowed to leave, but the goloshes remained at the hospital.
The Eventful Moment—a Most Unusual Journey
EVERY inhabitant of Copenhagen knows what the entrance to Frederick’s Hospital is like; but as most probably a few of those who read this little tale may not reside in Copenhagen, we will give a short description of it.
The hospital is separated from the street by an iron railing, in which the bars stand so wide apart that, it is said, some very slim patients have squeezed through, and gone to pay little visits in the town. The most difficult part of the body to get through was the head; and in this case, as it often happens in the world, the small heads were the most fortunate. This will serve as sufficient introduction to our tale. One of the young volunteers, of whom, physically speaking, it might be said that he had a great head, was on guard that evening at the hospital. The rain was pouring down, yet, in spite of these two obstacles, he wanted to go out just for a quarter of an hour; it was not worth while, he thought, to make a confidant of the porter, as he could easily slip through the iron railings. There lay the goloshes, which the watchman had forgotten. It never occurred to him that these could be goloshes of Fortune. They would be very serviceable to him in this rainy weather, so he drew them on. Now came the question whether he could squeeze through the palings; he certainly had never tried, so he stood looking at them. “I wish to goodness my head was through,” said he, and instantly, though it was so thick and large, it slipped through quite easily. The goloshes answered that purpose very well, but his body had to follow, and this was impossible. “I am too fat,” he said; “I thought my head would be the worst, but I cannot get my body through, that is certain.” Then he tried to pull his head back again, but without success; he could move his neck about easily enough, and that was all. His first feeling was one of anger, and then his spirits sank below zero. The goloshes of Fortune had placed him in this terrible position, and unfortunately it never occurred to him to wish himself free. No, instead of wishing he kept twisting about, yet did not stir from the spot. The rain poured, and not a creature could be seen in the street. The porter’s bell he was unable to reach, and however was he to get loose! He foresaw that he should have to stay there till morning, and then they must send for a smith to file away the iron bars, and that would be a work of time. All the charity children would just be going to school: and all the sailors who inhabited that quarter of the town would be there to see him standing in the pillory. What a crowd there would be. “Ha,” he cried, “the blood is rushing to my head, and I shall go mad. I believe I am crazy already; oh, I wish I were free, then all these sensations would pass off.” This is just what he ought to have said at first. The moment he had expressed the thought his head was free. He started back, quite bewildered with the fright which the goloshes of Fortune had caused him. But we must not suppose it was all over; no, indeed, there was worse to come yet. The night passed, and the whole of the following day; but no one sent for the goloshes. In the evening a declamatory performance was to take place at the amateur theatre in a distant street. The house was crowded; among the audience was the young volunteer from the hospital, who seemed to have quite forgotten his adventures of the previous evening. He had on the goloshes; they had not been sent for, and as the streets were still very dirty, they were of great service to him. A new poem, entitled “My Aunt’s Spectacles,” was being recited. It described these spectacles as possessing a wonderful power; if any one put them on in a large assembly the people appeared like cards, and the future events of ensuing years could be easily foretold by them. The idea struck him that he should very much like to have such a pair of spectacles; for, if used rightly, they would perhaps enable him to see into the hearts of people, which he thought would be more interesting than to know what was going to happen next year; for future events would be sure to show themselves, but the hearts of people never. “I can fancy what I should see in the whole row of ladies and gentlemen on the first seat, if I could only look into their hearts; that lady, I imagine, keeps a store for things of all descriptions; how my eyes would wander about in that collection; with many ladies I should no doubt find a large millinery establishment. There is another that is perhaps empty, and would be all the better for cleaning out. There may be some well stored with good articles. Ah, yes,” he sighed, “I know one, in which everything is solid, but a servant is there already, and that is the only thing against it. I dare say from many I should hear the words, ‘Please to walk in.’ I only wish I could slip into the hearts like a little tiny thought.” This was the word of command for the goloshes. The volunteer shrunk up together, and commenced a most unusual journey through the hearts of the spectators in the first row. The first heart he entered was that of a lady, but he thought he must have got into one of the rooms of an orthopedic institution where plaster casts of deformed limbs were hanging on the walls, with this difference, that the casts in the institution are formed when the patient enters, but here they were formed and preserved after the good people had left. These were casts of the bodily and mental deformities of the lady’s female friends carefully preserved. Quickly he passed into another heart, which had the appearance of a spacious, holy church, with the white dove of innocence fluttering over the altar. Gladly would he have fallen on his knees in such a sacred place; but he was carried on to another heart, still, however, listening to the tones of the organ, and feeling himself that he had become another and a better man. The next heart was also a sanctuary, which he felt almost unworthy to enter; it represented a mean garret, in which lay a sick mother; but the warm sunshine streamed through the window, lovely roses bloomed in a little flowerbox on the roof, two blue birds sang of childlike joys, and the sick mother prayed for a blessing on her daughter. Next he crept on his hands and knees through an overfilled butcher’s shop; there was meat, nothing but meat, wherever he stepped; this was the heart of a rich, respectable man, whose name is doubtless in the directory. Then he entered the heart of this man’s wife; it was an old, tumble-down pigeon-house; the husband’s portrait served as a weather-cock; it was connected with all the doors, which opened and shut just as the husband’s decision turned. The next heart was a complete cabinet of mirrors, such as can be seen in the Castle of Rosenberg. But these mirrors magnified in an astonishing degree; in the middle of the floor sat, like the Grand Lama, the insignificant I of the owner, astonished at the contemplation of his own features. At his next visit he fancied he must have got into a narrow needlecase, full of sharp needles: “Oh,” thought he, “this must be the heart of an old maid;” but such was not the fact; it belonged to a young officer, who wore several orders, and was said to be a man of intellect and heart.
The poor volunteer came out of the last heart in the row quite bewildered. He could not collect his thoughts, and imagined his foolish fancies had carried him away. “Good gracious!” he sighed, “I must have a tendency to softening of the brain, and here it is so exceedingly hot that the blood is rushing to my head.” And then suddenly recurred to him the strange event of the evening before, when his head had been fixed between the iron railings in front of the hospital. “That is the cause of it all!” he exclaimed, “I must do something in time. A Russian bath would be a very good thing to begin with. I wish I were lying on one of the highest shelves.” Sure enough, there he lay on an upper shelf of a vapor bath, still in his evening costume, with his boots and goloshes on, and the hot drops from the ceiling falling on his face. “Ho!” he cried, jumping down and rushing towards the plunging bath. The attendant stopped him with a loud cry, when he saw a man with all his clothes on. The volunteer had, however, presence of mind enough to whisper, “It is for a wager;” but the first thing he did, when he reached his own room, was to put a large blister on his neck, and another on his back, that his crazy fit might be cured. The next morning his back was very sore, which was all he gained by the goloshes of Fortune.
The Clerk’s Transformation
THE watchman, whom we of course have not forgotten, thought, after a while, of the goloshes which he had found and taken to the hospital; so he went and fetched them. But neither the lieutenant nor any one in the street could recognize them as their own, so he gave them up to the police. “They look exactly like my own goloshes,” said one of the clerks, examining the unknown articles, as they stood by the side of his own. “It would require even more than the eye of a shoemaker to know one pair from the other.”
“Master clerk,” said a servant who entered with some papers. The clerk turned and spoke to the man; but when he had done with him, he turned to look at the goloshes again, and now he was in greater doubt than ever as to whether the pair on the right or on the left belonged to him. “Those that are wet must be mine,” thought he; but he thought wrong, it was just the reverse. The goloshes of Fortune were the wet pair; and, besides, why should not a clerk in a police office be wrong sometimes? So he drew them on, thrust his papers into his pocket, placed a few manuscripts under his arm, which he had to take with him, and to make abstracts from at home. Then, as it was Sunday morning and the weather very fine, he said to himself, “A walk to Fredericksburg will do me good:” so away he went.
There could not be a quieter or more steady young man than this clerk. We will not grudge him this little walk, it was just the thing to do him good after sitting so much. He went on at first like a mere automaton, without thought or wish; therefore the goloshes had no opportunity to display their magic power. In the avenue he met with an acquaintance, one of our young poets, who told him that he intended to start on the following day on a summer excursion. “Are you really going away so soon?” asked the clerk. “What a free, happy man you are. You can roam about where you will, while such as we are tied by the foot.”
“But it is fastened to the bread-tree,” replied the poet. “You need have no anxiety for the morrow; and when you are old there is a pension for you.”
“Ah, yes; but you have the best of it,” said the clerk; “it must be so delightful to sit and write poetry. The whole world makes itself agreeable to you, and then you are your own master. You should try how you would like to listen to all the trivial things in a court of justice.” The poet shook his head, so also did the clerk; each retained his own opinion, and so they parted. “They are strange people, these poets,” thought the clerk. “I should like to try what it is to have a poetic taste, and to become a poet myself. I am sure I should not write such mournful verses as they do. This is a splendid spring day for a poet, the air is so remarkably clear, the clouds are so beautiful, and the green grass has such a sweet smell. For many years I have not felt as I do at this moment.”
We perceive, by these remarks, that he had already become a poet. By most poets what he had said would be considered common-place, or as the Germans call it, “insipid.” It is a foolish fancy to look upon poets as different to other men. There are many who are more the poets of nature than those who are professed poets. The difference is this, the poet’s intellectual memory is better; he seizes upon an idea or a sentiment, until he can embody it, clearly and plainly in words, which the others cannot do. But the transition from a character of every-day life to one of a more gifted nature is a great transition; and so the clerk became aware of the change after a time. “What a delightful perfume,” said he; “it reminds me of the violets at Aunt Lora’s. Ah, that was when I was a little boy. Dear me, how long it seems since I thought of those days! She was a good old maiden lady! she lived yonder, behind the Exchange. She always had a sprig or a few blossoms in water, let the winter be ever so severe. I could smell the violets, even while I was placing warm penny pieces against the frozen panes to make peep-holes, and a pretty view it was on which I peeped. Out in the river lay the ships, icebound, and forsaken by their crews; a screaming crow represented the only living creature on board. But when the breezes of spring came, everything started into life. Amidst shouting and cheers the ships were tarred and rigged, and then they sailed to foreign lands.”
“I remain here, and always shall remain, sitting at my post at the police office, and letting others take passports to distant lands. Yes, this is my fate,” and he sighed deeply. Suddenly he paused. “Good gracious, what has come over me? I never felt before as I do now; it must be the air of spring. It is overpowering, and yet it is delightful.”
He felt in his pockets for some of his papers. “These will give me something else to think of,” said he. Casting his eyes on the first page of one, he read, “‘Mistress Sigbirth; an original Tragedy, in Five Acts.’ What is this?—in my own handwriting, too! Have I written this tragedy?” He read again, “‘The Intrigue on the Promenade; or, the Fast-Day. A Vaudeville.’ However did I get all this? Some one must have put them into my pocket. And here is a letter!” It was from the manager of a theatre; the pieces were rejected, not at all in polite terms.
“Hem, hem!” said he, sitting down on a bench; his thoughts were very elastic, and his heart softened strangely. Involuntarily he seized one of the nearest flowers; it was a little, simple daisy. All that botanists can say in many lectures was explained in a moment by this little flower. It spoke of the glory of its birth; it told of the strength of the sunlight, which had caused its delicate leaves to expand, and given to it such sweet perfume. The struggles of life which arouse sensations in the bosom have their type in the tiny flowers. Air and light are the lovers of the flowers, but light is the favored one; towards light it turns, and only when light vanishes does it fold its leaves together, and sleep in the embraces of the air.”
“It is light that adorns me,” said the flower.
“But the air gives you the breath of life,” whispered the poet.
Just by him stood a boy, splashing with his stick in a marshy ditch. The water-drops spurted up among the green twigs, and the clerk thought of the millions of animalculae which were thrown into the air with every drop of water, at a height which must be the same to them as it would be to us if we were hurled beyond the clouds. As the clerk thought of all these things, and became conscious of the great change in his own feelings, he smiled, and said to himself, “I must be asleep and dreaming; and yet, if so, how wonderful for a dream to be so natural and real, and to know at the same time too that it is but a dream. I hope I shall be able to remember it all when I wake tomorrow. My sensations seem most unaccountable. I have a clear perception of everything as if I were wide awake. I am quite sure if I recollect all this tomorrow, it will appear utterly ridiculous and absurd. I have had this happen to me before. It is with the clever or wonderful things we say or hear in dreams, as with the gold which comes from under the earth, it is rich and beautiful when we possess it, but when seen in a true light it is but as stones and withered leaves.”
“Ah!” he sighed mournfully, as he gazed at the birds singing merrily, or hopping from branch to branch, “they are much better off than I. Flying is a glorious power. Happy is he who is born with wings. Yes, if I could change myself into anything I would be a little lark.” At the same moment his coat-tails and sleeves grew together and formed wings, his clothes changed to feathers, and his goloshes to claws. He felt what was taking place, and laughed to himself. “Well, now it is evident I must be dreaming; but I never had such a wild dream as this.” And then he flew up into the green boughs and sang, but there was no poetry in the song, for his poetic nature had left him. The goloshes, like all persons who wish to do a thing thoroughly, could only attend to one thing at a time. He wished to be a poet, and he became one. Then he wanted to be a little bird, and in this change he lost the characteristics of the former one. “Well,” thought he, “this is charming; by day I sit in a police-office, amongst the dryest law papers, and at night I can dream that I am a lark, flying about in the gardens of Fredericksburg. Really a complete comedy could be written about it.” Then he flew down into the grass, turned his head about in every direction, and tapped his beak on the bending blades of grass, which, in proportion to his size, seemed to him as long as the palm-leaves in northern Africa.
In another moment all was darkness around him. It seemed as if something immense had been thrown over him. A sailor boy had flung his large cap over the bird, and a hand came underneath and caught the clerk by the back and wings so roughly, that he squeaked, and then cried out in his alarm, “You impudent rascal, I am a clerk in the police-office!” but it only sounded to the boy like “tweet, tweet;” so he tapped the bird on the beak, and walked away with him. In the avenue he met two school-boys, who appeared to belong to a better class of society, but whose inferior abilities kept them in the lowest class at school. These boys bought the bird for eightpence, and so the clerk returned to Copenhagen. “It is well for me that I am dreaming,” he thought; “otherwise I should become really angry. First I was a poet, and now I am a lark. It must have been the poetic nature that changed me into this little creature. It is a miserable story indeed, especially now I have fallen into the hands of boys. I wonder what will be the end of it.” The boys carried him into a very elegant room, where a stout, pleasant-looking lady received them, but she was not at all gratified to find that they had brought a lark—a common field-bird as she called it. However, she allowed them for one day to place the bird in an empty cage that hung near the window. “It will please Polly perhaps,” she said, laughing at a large gray parrot, who was swinging himself proudly on a ring in a handsome brass cage. “It is Polly’s birthday,” she added in a simpering tone, “and the little field-bird has come to offer his congratulations.”
Polly did not answer a single word, he continued to swing proudly to and fro; but a beautiful canary, who had been brought from his own warm, fragrant fatherland, the summer previous, began to sing as loud as he could.
“You screamer!” said the lady, throwing a white handkerchief over the cage.
“Tweet, tweet,” sighed he, “what a dreadful snowstorm!” and then he became silent.
The clerk, or as the lady called him the field-bird, was placed in a little cage close to the canary, and not far from the parrot. The only human speech which Polly could utter, and which she sometimes chattered forth most comically, was “Now let us be men.” All besides was a scream, quite as unintelligible as the warbling of the canary-bird, excepting to the clerk, who being now a bird, could understand his comrades very well.
“I flew beneath green palm-trees, and amidst the blooming almond-trees,” sang the canary. “I flew with my brothers and sisters over beautiful flowers, and across the clear, bright sea, which reflected the waving foliage in its glittering depths; and I have seen many gay parrots, who could relate long and delightful stories.”
“They were wild birds,” answered the parrot, “and totally uneducated. Now let us be men. Why do you not laugh? If the lady and her visitors can laugh at this, surely you can. It is a great failing not to be able to appreciate what is amusing. Now let us be men.”
“Do you remember,” said the canary, “the pretty maidens who used to dance in the tents that were spread out beneath the sweet blossoms? Do you remember the delicious fruit and the cooling juice from the wild herbs?”
“Oh, yes,” said the parrot; “but here I am much better off. I am well fed, and treated politely. I know that I have a clever head; and what more do I want? Let us be men now. You have a soul for poetry. I have deep knowledge and wit. You have genius, but no discretion. You raise your naturally high notes so much, that you get covered over. They never serve me so. Oh, no; I cost them something more than you. I keep them in order with my beak, and fling my wit about me. Now let us be men.”
“O my warm, blooming fatherland,” sang the canary bird, “I will sing of thy dark-green trees and thy quiet streams, where the bending branches kiss the clear, smooth water. I will sing of the joy of my brothers and sisters, as their shining plumage flits among the dark leaves of the plants which grow wild by the springs.”
“Do leave off those dismal strains,” said the parrot; “sing something to make us laugh; laughter is the sign of the highest order of intellect. Can a dog or a horse laugh? No, they can cry; but to man alone is the power of laughter given. Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Polly, and repeated his witty saying, “Now let us be men.”
“You little gray Danish bird,” said the canary, “you also have become a prisoner. It is certainly cold in your forests, but still there is liberty there. Fly out! they have forgotten to close the cage, and the window is open at the top. Fly, fly!”
Instinctively, the clerk obeyed, and left the cage; at the same moment the half-opened door leading into the next room creaked on its hinges, and, stealthily, with green fiery eyes, the cat crept in and chased the lark round the room. The canary-bird fluttered in his cage, and the parrot flapped his wings and cried, “Let us be men;” the poor clerk, in the most deadly terror, flew through the window, over the houses, and through the streets, till at length he was obliged to seek a resting-place. A house opposite to him had a look of home. A window stood open; he flew in, and perched upon the table. It was his own room. “Let us be men now,” said he, involuntarily imitating the parrot; and at the same moment he became a clerk again, only that he was sitting on the table. “Heaven preserve us!” said he; “How did I get up here and fall asleep in this way? It was an uneasy dream too that I had. The whole affair appears most absurd.”
The Best Thing the Goloshes Did
EARLY on the following morning, while the clerk was still in bed, his neighbor, a young divinity student, who lodged on the same storey, knocked at his door, and then walked in. “Lend me your goloshes,” said he; “it is so wet in the garden, but the sun is shining brightly. I should like to go out there and smoke my pipe.” He put on the goloshes, and was soon in the garden, which contained only one plum-tree and one apple-tree; yet, in a town, even a small garden like this is a great advantage.
The student wandered up and down the path; it was just six o’clock, and he could hear the sound of the post-horn in the street. “Oh, to travel, to travel!” cried he; “there is no greater happiness in the world: it is the height of my ambition. This restless feeling would be stilled, if I could take a journey far away from this country. I should like to see beautiful Switzerland, to travel through Italy, and,”—It was well for him that the goloshes acted immediately, otherwise he might have been carried too far for himself as well as for us. In a moment he found himself in Switzerland, closely packed with eight others in the diligence. His head ached, his back was stiff, and the blood had ceased to circulate, so that his feet were swelled and pinched by his boots. He wavered in a condition between sleeping and waking. In his right-hand pocket he had a letter of credit; in his left-hand pocket was his passport; and a few louis d’ors were sewn into a little leather bag which he carried in his breast-pocket. Whenever he dozed, he dreamed that he had lost one or another of these possessions; then he would awake with a start, and the first movements of his hand formed a triangle from his right-hand pocket to his breast, and from his breast to his left-hand pocket, to feel whether they were all safe. Umbrellas, sticks, and hats swung in the net before him, and almost obstructed the prospect, which was really very imposing; and as he glanced at it, his memory recalled the words of one poet at least, who has sung of Switzerland, and whose poems have not yet been printed:—
“How lovely to my wondering eyes
Mont Blanc’s fair summits gently rise;
’Tis sweet to breathe the mountain air,—
If you have gold enough to spare.”
Grand, dark, and gloomy appeared the landscape around him. The pine-forests looked like little groups of moss on high rocks, whose summits were lost in clouds of mist. Presently it began to snow, and the wind blew keen and cold. “Ah,” he sighed, “if I were only on the other side of the Alps now, it would be summer, and I should be able to get money on my letter of credit. The anxiety I feel on this matter prevents me from enjoying myself in Switzerland. Oh, I wish I was on the other side of the Alps.”
And there, in a moment, he found himself, far away in the midst of Italy, between Florence and Rome, where the lake Thrasymene glittered in the evening sunlight like a sheet of molten gold between the dark blue mountains. There, where Hannibal defeated Flaminius, the grape vines clung to each other with the friendly grasp of their green tendril fingers; while, by the wayside, lovely half-naked children were watching a herd of coal-black swine under the blossoms of fragrant laurel. Could we rightly describe this picturesque scene, our readers would exclaim, “Delightful Italy!”
But neither the student nor either of his travelling companions felt the least inclination to think of it in this way. Poisonous flies and gnats flew into the coach by thousands. In vain they drove them away with a myrtle branch, the flies stung them notwithstanding. There was not a man in the coach whose face was not swollen and disfigured with the stings. The poor horses looked wretched; the flies settled on their backs in swarms, and they were only relieved when the coachmen got down and drove the creatures off.
As the sun set, an icy coldness filled all nature, not however of long duration. It produced the feeling which we experience when we enter a vault at a funeral, on a summer’s day; while the hills and the clouds put on that singular green hue which we often notice in old paintings, and look upon as unnatural until we have ourselves seen nature’s coloring in the south. It was a glorious spectacle; but the stomachs of the travellers were empty, their bodies exhausted with fatigue, and all the longings of their heart turned towards a resting-place for the night; but where to find one they knew not. All the eyes were too eagerly seeking for this resting-place, to notice the beauties of nature.
The road passed through a grove of olive-trees; it reminded the student of the willow-trees at home. Here stood a lonely inn, and close by it a number of crippled beggars had placed themselves; the brightest among them looked, to quote the words of Marryat, “like the eldest son of Famine who had just come of age.” The others were either blind, or had withered legs, which obliged them to creep about on their hands and knees, or they had shrivelled arms and hands without fingers. It was indeed poverty arrayed in rags. “Eccellenza, miserabili!” they exclaimed, stretching forth their diseased limbs. The hostess received the travellers with bare feet, untidy hair, and a dirty blouse. The doors were fastened together with string; the floors of the rooms were of brick, broken in many places; bats flew about under the roof; and as to the odor within—
“Let us have supper laid in the stable,” said one of the travellers; “then we shall know what we are breathing.”
The windows were opened to let in a little fresh air, but quicker than air came in the withered arms and the continual whining sounds, “Miserabili, eccellenza”. On the walls were inscriptions, half of them against “la bella Italia.”
The supper made its appearance at last. It consisted of watery soup, seasoned with pepper and rancid oil. This last delicacy played a principal part in the salad. Musty eggs and roasted cocks’-combs were the best dishes on the table; even the wine had a strange taste, it was certainly a mixture. At night, all the boxes were placed against the doors, and one of the travellers watched while the others slept. The student’s turn came to watch. How close the air felt in that room; the heat overpowered him. The gnats were buzzing about and stinging, while the miserabili, outside, moaned in their dreams.
“Travelling would be all very well,” said the student of divinity to himself, “if we had no bodies, or if the body could rest while the soul if flying. Wherever I go I feel a want which oppresses my heart, for something better presents itself at the moment; yes, something better, which shall be the best of all; but where is that to be found? In fact, I know in my heart very well what I want. I wish to attain the greatest of all happiness.”
No sooner were the words spoken than he was at home. Long white curtains shaded the windows of his room, and in the middle of the floor stood a black coffin, in which he now lay in the still sleep of death; his wish was fulfilled, his body was at rest, and his spirit travelling.
“Esteem no man happy until he is in his grave,” were the words of Solon. Here was a strong fresh proof of their truth. Every corpse is a sphinx of immortality. The sphinx in this sarcophagus might unveil its own mystery in the words which the living had himself written two days before—
“Stern death, thy chilling silence waketh dread;
Yet in thy darkest hour there may be light.
Earth’s garden reaper! from the grave’s cold bed
The soul on Jacob’s ladder takes her flight.
Man’s greatest sorrows often are a part
Of hidden griefs, concealed from human eyes,
Which press far heavier on the lonely heart
Than now the earth that on his coffin lies.”
Two figures were moving about the room; we know them both. One was the fairy named Care, the other the messenger of Fortune. They bent over the dead.
“Look!” said Care; “what happiness have your goloshes brought to mankind?”
“They have at least brought lasting happiness to him who slumbers here,” she said.
“Not so,” said Care, “he went away of himself, he was not summoned. His mental powers were not strong enough to discern the treasures which he had been destined to discover. I will do him a favor now.” And she drew the goloshes from his feet.
The sleep of death was ended, and the recovered man raised himself. Care vanished, and with her the goloshes; doubtless she looked upon them as her own property.
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