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安徒生童話故事第83篇：?jiǎn)紊頋h的睡帽The Old Bachelor’s Nightc
引導(dǎo)語：?jiǎn)紊頋h大家應(yīng)該知道是什么意思了，那么我們一起來閱讀下文的安徒生童話故事《單身漢的睡帽》看看是如何的?還有英文版的，歡迎大家閱讀!哥本哈根有一條街;它有這樣一個(gè)奇怪的名字——虎斯根·斯特勒得②。為什么它要叫這樣一個(gè)名字呢?它的意思是什么呢?它應(yīng)該是德文。不過人們?cè)谶@兒卻把德文弄錯(cuò)了。人們應(yīng)該說Hauschen才對(duì)，它的意義是“小房子”。從前——的確是在許多許多年以前——這兒沒有什么大建筑，只有像我們現(xiàn)在在廟會(huì)時(shí)所看到的那種木棚子。是的，它們比那還要略為大一點(diǎn)，而且開有窗子;不過窗框里鑲著的東西，不是獸角，就是膀胱皮，因?yàn)槟菚r(shí)玻璃很貴，不是每座屋子都用得起的。當(dāng)然，我們是在談很久以前的事情——那么久，即使曾祖父的祖父談起它，也要說“好久以前的時(shí)候”——事實(shí)上，那是好幾個(gè)世紀(jì)以前的事兒。
那時(shí)卜列門和留貝克的有錢商人經(jīng)常跟哥本哈根做生意。他們不親自到這兒來，只是派他們的伙計(jì)來。這些人就住在這條“小房子街”上的木棚子里，出賣啤酒和香料。
德國(guó)的啤酒是非�？煽诘模曳N類繁多，包括卜列門、普利生、愛姆塞等啤酒，甚至還有布龍斯威克白啤酒③。香料出售的種數(shù)也不少——番紅花、大茴香、生姜，特別是胡椒。的確，胡椒是這兒一種最重要的商品;因此在丹麥的那些德國(guó)的伙計(jì)就獲得了一個(gè)稱號(hào)：“胡椒朋友”。‘他們?cè)诔鰢?guó)以前必須答應(yīng)老板一個(gè)條件，那就是：他們不能在丹麥討太太。他們有許多人就這樣老了。他們得自己照料自己，安排自己的生活，壓制自己的感情——如果他們真有感情沖動(dòng)起來的話。他們有些人變成了非常孤獨(dú)的單身漢，思想很古怪，生活習(xí)慣也很古怪。從他們開始，凡是達(dá)到了某種年齡而還沒有結(jié)婚的人，現(xiàn)在人們統(tǒng)統(tǒng)把他們叫做“胡椒朋友”。人們要懂得這個(gè)故事，必須要了解這一點(diǎn)。
“胡椒朋友”成了人們開玩笑的一個(gè)對(duì)象。據(jù)說他們總是要戴上睡帽，并且把帽子拉到眼睛上，然后才去睡覺。孩子們都這么唱：
砍柴，砍柴!
唉，唉!這些單身漢真孤獨(dú)。
他們戴著一頂睡帽去睡覺，
他只好自己生起爐火。
是的，這就是人們所唱的關(guān)于他們的歌!人們這樣開一個(gè)單身漢和他的睡帽的玩笑，完全是因?yàn)樗麄兗炔焕斫鈫紊頋h，也不了解他的睡帽的緣故。唉!這種睡帽誰也不愿意戴上!為什么不呢?我們且聽吧：
在很古的時(shí)候，這條小房子街上沒有鋪上石塊;人們把腳從這個(gè)坑里拖出來，又踏進(jìn)另一個(gè)坑里去，好像是在一條人跡罕至的偏僻小路上走一樣;而且它還是狹窄得很。那些小房子緊挨在一起，和對(duì)面的距離很短，所以在夏天就常常有人把布篷從這個(gè)屋子扯到對(duì)面的屋子上去。在這種情況下，胡椒、番紅花和生姜的氣味就比平時(shí)要特別厲害了。
柜臺(tái)后面站著的沒有很多年輕人;不，他們大多數(shù)都是老頭兒。但是他們并不是像我們所想象的那些人物：他們并沒有戴著假發(fā)和睡帽，穿著緊腿褲，把背心和上衣的扣子全都扣上。不是的，祖父的曾祖父可能是那個(gè)樣兒——肖像上是這樣繪著的;但是“胡椒朋友”卻沒有錢來畫他們的肖像。這也實(shí)在可惜：如果曾經(jīng)有人把他們某一位站在柜臺(tái)后或在禮拜天到教堂去做禮拜的那副樣兒畫出一張來，現(xiàn)在一定是很有價(jià)值的。他們的帽子總是有很高的頂和很寬的邊。最年輕的伙計(jì)有時(shí)還喜歡在帽子上插一根羽毛。羊毛襯衫被燙得很平整的布領(lǐng)子掩著;窄上衣緊緊地扣著，大鍵松松地披在身上，褲腳一直扎進(jìn)競(jìng)口鞋里——因?yàn)檫@些伙計(jì)們都不穿襪子;他們的腰帶上掛著一把吃飯用的刀子和湯匙;同時(shí)為了自衛(wèi)起見，還插著一把較大的刀子——這個(gè)武器在那個(gè)時(shí)候常常是不可缺少的。
安東——小房子街上一位年紀(jì)最大的店員——他節(jié)日的裝束就是這樣。他只是沒有戴高頂帽子，而戴了一種無邊帽。在這帽子底下還有一頂手織的便帽——一頂不折不扣的睡帽。他戴慣了它，所以它就老是在他的頭上。他有兩頂這樣的帽子。他真是一個(gè)值得畫一下的人物，他瘦得像一根棍子，他的眼睛和嘴巴的四周全是皺紋;他的手指很長(zhǎng)，全是骨頭;他的眉毛是灰色的，密得像灌木叢。他的左眼上懸得有一撮頭發(fā)——這并不使他顯得漂亮，但卻引起人對(duì)他的注意。人們都知道，他是來自卜列門;可是這并不是他的故鄉(xiāng)，只是他的老板住在那兒。他的老家是在杜林吉亞——在瓦爾特堡附近的愛塞納哈城④。老安東不大談到它，但這更使他想念它。
這條街上的老伙計(jì)們不常碰到一起。每人呆在自己的店里。晚間很早店就關(guān)上門了，因此街上也顯得相當(dāng)黑暗。只有一絲微光從屋頂上鑲著角的窗子透露進(jìn)來。在這里面，老單身漢一般地是坐在床上，手里拿著一本德文《圣詩集》，口中吟著晚禱詩;要不然他就在屋子里東摸西摸，忙這忙那，一直忙到深夜，這種生活當(dāng)然不是很有趣的。在他鄉(xiāng)作為一個(gè)異國(guó)人是一種悲慘的境遇：誰也不管你，除非你妨害到別人。
當(dāng)外面是黑夜，下著雪或雨的時(shí)候，這地方就常常顯得極端陰暗和寂寞。這兒看不見什么燈，只有掛在墻上的那個(gè)圣母像面前有一個(gè)孤獨(dú)的小亮。在街的另一頭，在附近一個(gè)渡口的木欄柵那兒，水聲這時(shí)也可以清楚地聽得見。這樣的晚上是既漫長(zhǎng)而又孤寂，除非人們能找些事情來做。打包裹和拆包裹并非是天天有的事情;而人們也不能老是擦著秤或者做著紙袋。所以人們還得找點(diǎn)別的事情來做。老安東正是這樣打發(fā)他的時(shí)間。他縫他的衣服，補(bǔ)他的皮鞋。當(dāng)他最后上床睡覺的時(shí)候，他就根據(jù)他的習(xí)慣在頭上保留著他的睡帽。他把它拉得很低，但是不一會(huì)兒他又把它推上去，看看燈是不是完全吹熄了，他把燈摸一下，把燈芯捻一下，然后翻個(gè)身躺下去，又把睡帽拉下一點(diǎn)。這時(shí)他心里又疑慮起來：是不是下面那個(gè)小火缽里的每一顆炭都熄了和壓滅了——可能還有一顆小小的火星沒有滅，它可以使整體的火又燃起來，造成災(zāi)害。于是他就下床來，爬下梯子——因?yàn)槲覀兒茈y把它叫做“樓”梯。當(dāng)他來到那個(gè)火缽旁邊的時(shí)候，一顆火星也看不見;他很可以轉(zhuǎn)身就回去的。但是當(dāng)他走了一半的時(shí)候，他又想起門閂可能沒有插好，窗扉可能沒有關(guān)牢。是的，他的那雙瘦腿又只好把他送到樓下來。當(dāng)他又爬到床上去的時(shí)候，他全身已經(jīng)凍冰了，他的牙齒在嘴里發(fā)抖，因?yàn)楫?dāng)寒冷知道自己呆不了多久的時(shí)候，它也就放肆起來。他把被子往上拉得更緊一點(diǎn)，把睡帽拉得更低一點(diǎn)，直蓋到眉毛上，然后他的思想便從生意和這天的煩惱轉(zhuǎn)到別的問題上去。但是這也不是愉快的事情，因?yàn)檫@時(shí)許多回憶就來了，在他周圍放下一層簾子，而這些簾子上常常是有尖針的，人們常常用這些針來刺自己，叫出一聲“哦!”這些刺就刺進(jìn)肉里去，使人發(fā)燒，還使人流出眼淚。老安東就常常是這個(gè)樣子——流出熱淚來。大顆的淚珠一直滾到被子上或地板上。它們滴得很響，好像他痛苦的心弦已經(jīng)斷了似的。有時(shí)它們像火焰似地燎起來，在他面前照出一幅生命的圖畫——一幅在他心里永遠(yuǎn)也消逝不了的圖畫。如果他用睡帽把他的眼睛揩一下的話，這眼淚和圖畫的確就會(huì)破滅，但是眼淚的源泉卻是一點(diǎn)也沒有動(dòng)搖，它仍然藏在他心的深處。這些圖畫并不根據(jù)它們實(shí)際發(fā)生的情況，一幕一幕地按照次序顯現(xiàn)出來;最痛苦的情景常常是一齊到來;最快樂的情景也是一齊到來，但是它們總是撒下最深的陰影。
“丹麥的山毛櫸林子是美麗的!”人們說，但是杜林吉亞的山毛櫸林子，在安東的眼中，顯得更美麗得多。那個(gè)巍峨的騎士式的宮殿旁長(zhǎng)著許多老櫟樹。它們?cè)谒难壑幸惨鹊湹臉渫䥽?yán)和莊重得多。石崖上長(zhǎng)滿了長(zhǎng)春藤;蘋果樹上開滿了花：它們要比丹麥的香得多。他生動(dòng)地記起了這些情景。于是一顆亮晶晶的眼淚滾到他臉上來了;在這顆眼淚里面，他可以清楚地看到兩個(gè)孩子在玩耍——一個(gè)男孩和一個(gè)女孩。男孩有一副鮮紅的臉，金黃的卷發(fā)和誠(chéng)實(shí)的藍(lán)眼睛。他是一個(gè)富有商人的兒子小安東——就是他自己。女孩有棕色的眼珠、黑發(fā)和聰明伶俐的外表。她是市長(zhǎng)的女兒茉莉。這兩個(gè)孩子在玩著一個(gè)蘋果。他們搖著這蘋果，傾聽里面的蘋果子發(fā)出什么響聲。他們把它切成兩半;每個(gè)人分一半。他們把蘋果子也平均地分了，而且都吃掉了，只剩下一顆。小女孩提議把這顆子埋在土里。
“那么你就可以看到會(huì)有什么東西長(zhǎng)出來。那將是你料想不到的一件東西。一棵完整的蘋果樹將會(huì)長(zhǎng)出來，但是它不會(huì)馬上就長(zhǎng)的。”
于是他們就把這蘋果子埋在一個(gè)花缽里。兩個(gè)人為它熱心地忙了一陣。男孩用手指在土里挖了一個(gè)洞，小女孩把籽放進(jìn)去;然后他們兩人就一起用土把它蓋好。
“不準(zhǔn)明天把它挖出來，看它有沒有長(zhǎng)根，”茉莉說。“這樣可就不行!我以前對(duì)我的花兒也這樣做過，不過只做過兩次。我想看看它們是不是在生長(zhǎng);那時(shí)我也不太懂，結(jié)果花兒全都死了。”
安東把這花缽搬到自己家里去。有一整個(gè)冬天，他每天早晨去看它�？墒浅撕谕烈酝�，他什么也看不見。接著春天到來了;太陽照得很溫暖。最后有兩片綠葉子從缽子里冒出來。
“它們就是我和茉莉!”安東說。“這真是美!這真是妙極了!”
不久第三片葉子又冒出來了。這一片代。表誰呢?是的，另外一片葉兒也長(zhǎng)出來了，接著又是另外一片!一天一天地，一星期一星期地，它們長(zhǎng)寬了。這植物開始長(zhǎng)成一棵樹。這一切現(xiàn)在映在一顆淚珠里——于是被揩掉了，不見了;但是它可以從源泉里再涌出來——從老安東的心里再涌出來。
在愛塞納哈的附近有一排石山。它們中間有一座是分外地圓，連一棵樹，一座灌木林，一根草也沒有。它叫做維納斯山，因?yàn)樵谒锩孀≈S納斯夫人——異教徒時(shí)代的神抵之一。她又叫做荷萊夫人。住在愛塞納哈的孩子們，過去和現(xiàn)在都知道關(guān)于她的故事。把那個(gè)高貴的騎士和吟游詩人但霍依塞爾⑤從瓦爾特堡宮的歌手群中引誘到這山里去的人就正是她。
小茉莉和安東常常站在這山旁邊。有一次茉莉說：
“你敢敲敲這山，說：‘荷萊夫人!荷萊夫人!請(qǐng)把門打開，但霍依塞爾來了’嗎?”但是安東不敢。茉莉可是敢了，雖然她只是高聲地、清楚地說了這幾個(gè)字：“荷萊夫人!荷萊夫人!”其余的幾個(gè)字她對(duì)著風(fēng)說得那么含糊，連安東都不相信她真的說過什么話�？墒撬龀鲆桓贝竽懞吞詺獾纳駳�——淘氣得像她平時(shí)帶些小女孩子到花園里來逗他的那個(gè)樣兒：那時(shí)因?yàn)樗辉敢獗蝗宋�，同時(shí)想逃避她們，她們就更想要吻他;只有她是唯一敢吻他的人。
“我可以吻他!”她驕傲地說。于是她便摟著他的脖子。這是她的虛榮的表現(xiàn)。安東只有屈服了，對(duì)于這事也不深究。
茉莉是多么可愛，多么大膽啊!住在山里的荷萊夫人據(jù)說也是很美麗的，不過那是一種誘惑人的惡魔的美。最美麗、最優(yōu)雅的要算是圣·伊麗莎白的那種美。她是這地方的守護(hù)神，杜林吉亞的虔誠(chéng)的公主;她的善行被編成了傳說和故事，在許多地方被人歌頌。她的畫像掛在教堂里，四周懸著許多銀燈。但是她一點(diǎn)也不像茉莉。
這兩個(gè)孩子所種的蘋果樹一年一年地在長(zhǎng)大。它長(zhǎng)得那么高，他們不得不把它移植到花園里去，讓它能有新鮮空氣、露水和溫暖的太陽。這樹長(zhǎng)得很結(jié)實(shí)，能夠抵御冬天的寒冷。它似乎在等待嚴(yán)寒過去，以便它能開出春天的花朵而表示它的歡樂。它在秋天結(jié)了兩個(gè)蘋果——一個(gè)給茉莉，一個(gè)給安東。它不會(huì)結(jié)得少于這個(gè)數(shù)目。
這株樹在欣欣向榮地生長(zhǎng)。茉莉也像這樣在生長(zhǎng)。她是像一朵蘋果花那樣新鮮。可是安東欣賞這朵花的時(shí)間不長(zhǎng)久。一切都起了變化!茉莉的父親離開了老家，到很遠(yuǎn)的地方去了;茉莉也跟他一起去了。是的，在我們的這個(gè)時(shí)代里，火車把他們的旅行縮短成為幾個(gè)鐘頭。但是在那個(gè)時(shí)候，從愛塞納哈向東走，到杜林吉亞最遠(yuǎn)邊境上的一個(gè)叫做魏瑪?shù)某鞘�，卻需要一天一夜以上的時(shí)間。
茉莉哭起來;安東也哭起來。他們的眼淚融成一顆淚珠，而這顆淚珠有一種快樂可愛的粉紅顏色，因?yàn)檐岳蚋嬖V他，說她愛他——愛他勝過愛華麗的魏瑪城。
一年、兩年、三年過去了。在這期間他收到了兩封信。一封是由一個(gè)信差帶來的;另一封是由一個(gè)旅人帶來的。路途是那么遙遠(yuǎn)而又艱難，同時(shí)還要曲曲折折地經(jīng)過許多城市和村莊。
萊莉和安東常常聽人談起特里斯丹和依蘇爾特⑥的故事，而且他常常把這故事來比自己和茉莉。但是特里斯丹這個(gè)名字的意義是在“苦難中生長(zhǎng)的”;這與安東的情況不相合，同時(shí)他也不能像特里斯丹那樣。想象“她已經(jīng)忘掉了我”。但是依蘇爾特的確也沒有忘掉他的意中人：當(dāng)他們兩人死后各躺在教堂一邊的時(shí)候，他們墳上的菩提樹就伸到教堂頂上去，把它們盛開的花朵交織在一起。安東覺得這故事很美麗，但是悲慘。不過他和茉莉之間的關(guān)系不可能是這樣悲慘的吧。于是他就唱出一個(gè)吟游詩人維特·馮·德爾·佛格爾外得⑦所寫的一支歌：
在荒地上的菩提樹下——!
他特別覺得這一段很美麗：
從那沉靜的山谷里，從那樹林，
哎哎喲!
飄來夜鶯甜美的歌聲。
他常常唱著這支歌。當(dāng)他騎著馬走過深谷到魏瑪去看茉莉的時(shí)候，他就在月明之夜唱著并且用口哨吹著這支歌。他要在她意料不到的時(shí)候來，而他也就在她意料不到的時(shí)候到來了。茉莉用滿杯的酒，愉快的陪客，高雅的朋友來歡迎他;還為他準(zhǔn)備好了一個(gè)漂亮的房間和一張舒服的床。然而這種招待跟他夢(mèng)想的情形卻有些不同。他不理解自己，也不能理解別人;但是我們可以理解!一個(gè)人可能被請(qǐng)到一家去，跟這家的人生活在一起，而不成為他們中的一員。一個(gè)人可以一起跟人談話，像坐在馬車?yán)锔苏勗捯粯�，可能彼此都認(rèn)識(shí)，像在旅途上同行的人一樣——彼此都感到不方便，彼此都希望自己或者這位好同伴趕快走開。是的，安東現(xiàn)在的感覺就是這樣。
“我是一個(gè)誠(chéng)實(shí)的女子，”茉莉?qū)λf，“我想親自把這一點(diǎn)告訴你!自從我們小的時(shí)候起，我們彼此有了許多變化——內(nèi)在的和外在的變化。習(xí)慣和意志控制不了我們的感情。安東!我不希望叫你恨我，因?yàn)椴痪梦揖鸵x開此地。請(qǐng)相信我，我衷心希望你一切都好。不過叫我愛你——現(xiàn)在我所理解的對(duì)于男子的那種愛——那是不可能的了。你必須接受這事實(shí)。再會(huì)吧，安東!”
安東也就對(duì)她說了“再會(huì)”。他的眼里流不出什么眼淚，不過他感到他不再是茉莉的朋友了，白熱的鐵和冰冷的鐵，只要我們吻它一下，在我們的嘴唇上所產(chǎn)生的感覺都是一樣的。他的心里充滿了恨，也充滿了愛。
他這次沒有花一天一夜的工夫，就回到愛塞納哈來了，但是這種飛快的速度已經(jīng)把他騎著的那匹馬累壞了。
“有什么關(guān)系!”他說，“我也毀掉了。我要?dú)У粢磺心苁刮矣浧鹚�、荷萊姑娘或者那個(gè)女異教徒維納斯的東西，我要把那棵蘋果樹砍斷，把它連根挖起來，使它再也開不了花，結(jié)不了果!”
可是蘋果樹倒沒有倒下來，而他自己卻倒下來了：他躺在床上發(fā)燒，起不來了，什么東西可以使他再起床呢?這時(shí)他得到一劑藥，可以產(chǎn)生這樣的效果——一劑最苦的、會(huì)刺激他生病的身體和萎縮的靈魂的藥;安東的父親不再是富有的商人了。艱難的日子——考驗(yàn)的日子——現(xiàn)在來到門前了。倒楣的事情像洶涌的海浪一樣，打進(jìn)這曾經(jīng)一度是豪富的屋子里來。他的父親成了一個(gè)窮人。悲愁和苦難把他的精力折磨盡了。安東不能再老是想著他愛情的創(chuàng)傷和對(duì)茉莉的憤怒，他還要想點(diǎn)別的東西。他得成為這一家的主人——布置善后，維持家庭，親自動(dòng)手工作。他甚至還得自己投進(jìn)這個(gè)茫茫的世界，去掙自己的面包。
安東到卜列門去。他在那里嘗到了貧窮和艱難日子的滋味。這有時(shí)使得他的心硬，有時(shí)使得他的心軟——常常是過于心軟。
這世界是多么不同啊!實(shí)際的人生跟他在兒時(shí)所想象的是多么不同啊!吟游詩人的歌聲現(xiàn)在對(duì)他有什么意義呢?那只不過是一種聲音，一種廢話罷了!是的，這正是他不時(shí)所起的感想;不過這歌聲有時(shí)在他的靈魂里又唱起來，于是他的心就又變得溫柔了。
“上帝的意志總是最好的!”他不免要這樣說。“這倒也是對(duì)的：上帝不讓我保留住茉莉的心，她不再真心愛我。好運(yùn)既然離開了我，我們的關(guān)系發(fā)展下去又會(huì)有什么結(jié)果呢?在她還沒有知道我破產(chǎn)以前，在她還想不到我的遭遇以前，她就放棄了我——這是上天給我的一種恩惠。一切都是為了一個(gè)最好的目的而安排的。這不能怪她——而我卻一直在恨她，對(duì)她起了那么大的惡感!”
許多年過去了。安東的父親死了;他的老屋已經(jīng)有陌生人進(jìn)去了。不過安東卻要再看到它一次。他富有的主人因了某些生意要派他出去;他的職務(wù)又使他回到他的故鄉(xiāng)愛塞納哈城來。那座古老的瓦爾特堡宮和它的一些石刻的“修士和修女”，仍然立在山上，一點(diǎn)也沒有改變。巨大的櫟樹把那些輪廓襯托得更鮮明，像在他兒時(shí)一樣。那座維納斯山赤裸裸地立在峽谷上，發(fā)著灰色的閃光。他倒很想喊一聲：“荷萊夫人喲，荷萊夫人喲，請(qǐng)把山門打開吧，讓我躺在我故鄉(xiāng)的土里吧!”
這是一種罪惡的思想;他劃了一個(gè)十字。這時(shí)有一只小鳥在一個(gè)叢林里唱起來;于是那支吟游詩人的歌又回到他心里來了：
在那沉靜的山谷里，從那樹林，
哎哎喲!
飄來夜鶯甜美的歌聲。
他現(xiàn)在含著眼淚來重看這座兒時(shí)的城市，他不禁記起了許多事情。他父親的房子仍然跟以前一樣，沒有改變;但是那個(gè)花園卻改觀了：現(xiàn)在在它的一邊開辟了一條小徑;他沒有毀掉的那棵蘋果樹仍然立在那兒，不過它的位置已經(jīng)是在花園的外面，在小徑的另一邊。像往昔一樣，太陽照在這蘋果樹上，露珠落到它身上;它結(jié)了那么多的果子，連枝丫都彎到地上來了。
“它長(zhǎng)得真茂盛!”他說。“它可會(huì)長(zhǎng)!”
雖然如此，它還是有一根枝子被折斷了。這是一只殘忍的手做的事情，因?yàn)樗x開路旁那么近。
“人們把它的花朵拆下來，連感謝都不說一聲。——他們偷它的果子，折斷它的枝條。我們談到這棵樹的時(shí)候，也可以像談到某些人一樣——當(dāng)它在搖籃里的時(shí)候，誰也沒有想到它會(huì)到這步田地!它的生活在開始的時(shí)候是多么光明啊!結(jié)果是怎樣呢?它被人遺棄了，忘掉了——一棵花園的樹，現(xiàn)在居然流落到荒郊，站在大路邊!它立在那兒沒有什么東西保護(hù)它;它任人劫掠和折斷!它固然不會(huì)因此而死掉，但是它的花將會(huì)一年一年地變得稀少，它很快就會(huì)停止結(jié)果，最后——最后一切就都完了!”
這是安東在這樹下所起的感想。這也是他在一個(gè)遙遠(yuǎn)的國(guó)度里，在哥本哈根的那個(gè)“小房子街”上的一座孤寂的木屋子里，在許多夜里，所起的感想。他被他富有的老板——一個(gè)卜列門的商人——送到這兒來，第一個(gè)條件是不準(zhǔn)他結(jié)婚。
“結(jié)婚!哈!哈!”他對(duì)自己苦笑起來。
冬天來得很早;外面凍得厲害。一陣暴風(fēng)雪在外面呼嘯。凡是能呆在家里的人都呆在家里不出來。因此，住在對(duì)面的鄰居也沒有注意到安東有兩天沒有開過店門，他本人也沒有出現(xiàn)，因?yàn)樵谶@樣的天氣里，如果沒有必要的事情，誰會(huì)走出來呢?
那是灰色的、陰沉的日子。在這些窗子的不是玻璃的房子里，平時(shí)只有黎明和黑夜這兩種氣氛。老安東有整整兩天沒有離開過他的床，因?yàn)樗麤]有氣力起來。天氣的寒冷已經(jīng)把他凍僵了。這個(gè)被世人遺忘了的單身漢在那兒，簡(jiǎn)直沒有辦法照料自己了。他親自放在床邊的一個(gè)水壺，他現(xiàn)在連拿它的氣力都沒有。現(xiàn)在它里面最后的一滴水已經(jīng)喝光了。壓倒他的東西倒不是發(fā)燒，也不是疾病，而是衰老。在他睡著的那塊地方，他簡(jiǎn)直被漫長(zhǎng)的黑夜吞沒了。一只小小的蜘蛛——可是他看不見它——在興高采烈地、忙忙碌碌地圍著他的身體織了一層蛛網(wǎng)。它好像是在織一面喪旗，以便在這老單身漢閉上眼睛的那天可以掛起來。
時(shí)間過得非常慢、非常長(zhǎng)，非常沉悶。他再?zèng)]有眼淚可流，他也不感到痛楚。他心里也不再想起茉莉。他有一種感覺：這世界與它熙熙攘攘的聲音和他再?zèng)]有什么關(guān)系——他仿佛是躺在世界的外面。誰也沒有想到他。他偶爾也感覺到有點(diǎn)饑渴。是的，他有這種感覺!但是沒有誰來送給他茶水——沒有誰。于是他想起那些饑餓的人;他想起圣伊麗莎白生前的事跡。她是他故鄉(xiāng)和他兒童時(shí)代的守護(hù)神，杜林吉亞的公爵夫人，一個(gè)仁慈的少婦。她常常去拜訪最貧寒的小屋、帶食物和安慰給生病的人。她的一切虔誠(chéng)的善行射進(jìn)他的靈魂。他想起她帶給苦痛的人們安慰的話語，她替受難的人們裹傷，帶肉給饑餓的人吃，雖然她的嚴(yán)厲的丈夫常為這類的事情罵她。他記起那個(gè)關(guān)于她的傳說：她有一次提著滿滿一籃的食物和酒;這時(shí)監(jiān)視著她的腳步的丈夫就走過來，生氣地問她提著的是什么東西;她害怕得抖起來，她回答說她籃子里盛的是她在花園里摘下的玫瑰花朵;他把那塊白布從籃子上拉開，于是一件奇跡為這虔誠(chéng)的婦人發(fā)生了：面包、酒和這籃子里的每件東西全都變成了玫瑰花!
老安東平靜的心里現(xiàn)在充滿了對(duì)于這位圣者的記憶。她現(xiàn)在就親身在他沮喪的面孔前面立著，在丹麥國(guó)土上這個(gè)簡(jiǎn)陋木屋里的、他的床邊立著。他把頭伸出來，凝望著她那對(duì)溫柔的眼睛，于是他周圍的一切就變成了玫瑰和陽光。是的，好像是玫瑰在展開花瓣，噴出香氣。這時(shí)他聞到一種甜蜜的、獨(dú)特的蘋果花的香味。于是他就看到一株開滿了花朵的蘋果樹;它在他頭上展開了一片青枝綠葉——這就是他和茉莉用蘋果子共同種的那株樹。
這樹在他身上撒下它芬芳的花瓣，使他發(fā)熱的前額感到清涼，這些花瓣落到他干渴的嘴唇上，像面包和酒似地提起他的精神。這些花瓣落到他的胸膛上，他于是感到輕松，想安靜地睡過去。
“現(xiàn)在我要睡了!”他對(duì)自己低聲說。“睡眠可以恢復(fù)精神。明天我將又可以起床了，又變得健康和強(qiáng)壯了。那才美呢，那才好呢!這株用真正的愛情所培養(yǎng)出來的蘋果樹，現(xiàn)在站在我面前，放射出天國(guó)的光輝!”
于是他就睡去了。
過了一天以后——這是他的店子關(guān)門的第三天——暴風(fēng)雪停止了。對(duì)面的一個(gè)鄰居到他的木屋子里來看這位一直還沒有露面的老安東。安東直直地躺在床上——死了——他的雙手緊緊地抓著他的那頂老睡帽!在他入殮的時(shí)候，人們沒有把這頂睡帽戴在他的頭上，因?yàn)樗�有一頂嶄新的白帽子。
他曾經(jīng)流過的那些眼淚現(xiàn)在到什么地方去了呢?這些淚珠變成了什么呢?它們都裝在他的睡帽里——真正的淚珠是沒有辦法洗掉的。它們留在那頂睡帽里被人忘記了。不過那些舊時(shí)的回憶和舊時(shí)的夢(mèng)現(xiàn)在保存在這頂“單身漢的睡帽”里，請(qǐng)你不要希望得到這頂帽子吧。它會(huì)使你的前額燒起來，使你的脈搏狂跳，使你做起像真事一樣的夢(mèng)來。安東死后戴過這帽子的第一個(gè)人就有這樣親身的體會(huì)，雖然已經(jīng)時(shí)隔半個(gè)世紀(jì)。這個(gè)人就是市長(zhǎng)本人。他有一個(gè)太太和11個(gè)孩子，而且生活得很好。他馬上就做了許多夢(mèng)，夢(mèng)到失戀、破產(chǎn)和艱難的日子。
“乖乖!這帽子真是熱得燙人!”他說，趕快把它從腦袋上拉掉。
一顆珠子滾出來，接著滾出第二顆，第三顆;它們滴出響聲，發(fā)出閃光。
“一定是關(guān)節(jié)炎發(fā)作了!”市長(zhǎng)說。“我的眼睛有些發(fā)花!”
這是半個(gè)世紀(jì)以前愛塞納哈的老安東所撒下的淚珠。
從來無論什么人，只要戴上這頂睡帽，便會(huì)做出許多夢(mèng)和看到許多幻影。他自己的生活便變成了安東的生活，而且成為一個(gè)故事;事實(shí)上，成為許多的故事。不過我們可以讓別人來講它們。我們現(xiàn)在已經(jīng)講了頭一個(gè)。我們最后的一句話是。請(qǐng)不要希望得到那頂“老單身漢的睡帽”。
�、賳紊頋h(Pebersvend)這個(gè)字在丹麥文里是由Peber(胡椒)和Svend(店伙)兩個(gè)字合成的。可見丹麥文中“單身漢”這個(gè)字的起源是跟這個(gè)故事有關(guān)的，即“胡椒朋友”。
②原文“Hysken Straede”即“小房子街”的意思。這既不像丹麥文，也不像德文，而是“洋涇浜”的德文和丹麥文的混合物。Hysken是丹麥人把德文kauschen(小房子)改成丹麥文的結(jié)果。“Straede”(街)是地道的丹麥文。
�、鄄箭埶雇�(Brunswick)是德國(guó)中間的一個(gè)城市。這兒的啤酒以強(qiáng)烈著名。
④杜林吉亞(Tburingia)是德國(guó)一個(gè)省，以多森林和美麗的城市如魏瑪(Weimar)和愛塞納哈(Eisenach)著名。瓦爾特堡壘(Wartburg)是一個(gè)古老的宮殿;在中世紀(jì)許多吟游詩人經(jīng)常到這兒來舉行詩歌比賽。
�、莸粢廊麪�(Tannhauser)是德國(guó)13世紀(jì)的一個(gè)抒情詩人。德國(guó)的名作曲家瓦格納(Richard Wagner，1813～1883)曾根據(jù)他的傳說寫出一個(gè)有名的歌劇，叫做《但霍依塞爾》。
⑥這是中世紀(jì)一個(gè)傳奇故事中的兩個(gè)主角。特里斯丹(Tristan)愛上了國(guó)王馬爾克的女兒依蘇爾特(Isolde)。因?yàn)榛屎蟮募刀�，他們不得結(jié)婚。
⑦維特·馮·德爾·佛格爾外得(Walther von der Vogelweide，1170～1230?)是德國(guó)一個(gè)著名的抒情詩人和吟游詩人。他最著名的情詩是《在菩提樹下》(Unter der Linden)。
單身漢的睡帽英文版：
The Old Bachelor’s Nightcap
THERE is a street in Copenhagen with a very strange name. It is called “Hysken” street. Where the name came from, and what it means is very uncertain. It is said to be German, but that is unjust to the Germans, for it would then be called “Hauschen,” not “Hysken.” “Hauschen,” means a little house; and for many years it consisted only of a few small houses, which were scarcely larger than the wooden booths we see in the market-places at fair time. They were perhaps a little higher, and had windows; but the panes consisted of horn or bladder-skins, for glass was then too dear to have glazed windows in every house. This was a long time ago, so long indeed that our grandfathers, and even great-grandfathers, would speak of those days as “olden times;” indeed, many centuries have passed since then.
The rich merchants in Bremen and Lubeck, who carried on trade in Copenhagen, did not reside in the town themselves, but sent their clerks, who dwelt in the wooden booths in the Hauschen street, and sold beer and spices. The German beer was very good, and there were many sorts—from Bremen, Prussia, and Brunswick—and quantities of all sorts of spices, saffron, aniseed, ginger, and especially pepper; indeed, pepper was almost the chief article sold here; so it happened at last that the German clerks in Denmark got their nickname of “pepper gentry.” It had been made a condition with these clerks that they should not marry; so that those who lived to be old had to take care of themselves, to attend to their own comforts, and even to light their own fires, when they had any to light. Many of them were very aged; lonely old boys, with strange thoughts and eccentric habits. From this, all unmarried men, who have attained a certain age, are called, in Denmark, “pepper gentry;” and this must be remembered by all those who wish to understand the story. These “pepper gentlemen,” or, as they are called in England, “old bachelors,” are often made a butt of ridicule; they are told to put on their nightcaps, draw them over their eyes, and go to sleep. The boys in Denmark make a song of it, thus:—
“Poor old bachelor, cut your wood,
Such a nightcap was never seen;
Who would think it was ever clean?
Go to sleep, it will do you good.”
So they sing about the “pepper gentleman;” so do they make sport of the poor old bachelor and his nightcap, and all because they really know nothing of either. It is a cap that no one need wish for, or laugh at. And why not? Well, we shall hear in the story.
In olden times, Hauschen Street was not paved, and passengers would stumble out of one hole into another, as they generally do in unfrequented highways; and the street was so narrow, and the booths leaning against each other were so close together, that in the summer time a sail would be stretched across the street from one booth to another opposite. At these times the odor of the pepper, saffron, and ginger became more powerful than ever. Behind the counter, as a rule, there were no young men. The clerks were almost all old boys; but they did not dress as we are accustomed to see old men represented, wearing wigs, nightcaps, and knee-breeches, and with coat and waistcoat buttoned up to the chin. We have seen the portraits of our great-grandfathers dressed in this way; but the “pepper gentlemen” had no money to spare to have their portraits taken, though one of them would have made a very interesting picture for us now, if taken as he appeared standing behind his counter, or going to church, or on holidays. On these occasions, they wore high-crowned, broad-brimmed hats, and sometimes a younger clerk would stick a feather in his. The woollen shirt was concealed by a broad, linen collar; the close jacket was buttoned up to the chin, and the cloak hung loosely over it; the trousers were tucked into the broad, tipped shoes, for the clerks wore no stockings. They generally stuck a table-knife and spoon in their girdles, as well as a larger knife, as a protection to themselves; and such a weapon was often very necessary.
After this fashion was Anthony dressed on holidays and festivals, excepting that, instead of a high-crowned hat, he wore a kind of bonnet, and under it a knitted cap, a regular nightcap, to which he was so accustomed that it was always on his head; he had two, nightcaps I mean, not heads. Anthony was one of the oldest of the clerks, and just the subject for a painter. He was as thin as a lath, wrinkled round the mouth and eyes, had long, bony fingers, bushy, gray eyebrows, and over his left eye hung a thick tuft of hair, which did not look handsome, but made his appearance very remarkable. People knew that he came from Bremen; it was not exactly his home, although his master resided there. His ancestors were from Thuringia, and had lived in the town of Eisenach, close by Wartburg. Old Anthony seldom spoke of this place, but he thought of it all the more.
The old clerks of Hauschen Street very seldom met together; each one remained in his own booth, which was closed early enough in the evening, and then it looked dark and dismal out in the street. Only a faint glimmer of light struggled through the horn panes in the little window on the roof, while within sat the old clerk, generally on his bed, singing his evening hymn in a low voice; or he would be moving about in his booth till late in the night, busily employed in many things. It certainly was not a very lively existence. To be a stranger in a strange land is a bitter lot; no one notices you unless you happen to stand in their way. Often, when it was dark night outside, with rain or snow falling, the place looked quite deserted and gloomy. There were no lamps in the street, excepting a very small one, which hung at one end of the street, before a picture of the Virgin, which had been painted on the wall. The dashing of the water against the bulwarks of a neighboring castle could plainly be heard. Such evenings are long and dreary, unless people can find something to do; and so Anthony found it. There were not always things to be packed or unpacked, nor paper bags to be made, nor the scales to be polished. So Anthony invented employment; he mended his clothes and patched his boots, and when he at last went to bed,—his nightcap, which he had worn from habit, still remained on his head; he had only to pull it down a little farther over his forehead. Very soon, however, it would be pushed up again to see if the light was properly put out; he would touch it, press the wick together, and at last pull his nightcap over his eyes and lie down again on the other side. But often there would arise in his mind a doubt as to whether every coal had been quite put out in the little fire-pan in the shop below. If even a tiny spark had remained it might set fire to something, and cause great damage. Then he would rise from his bed, creep down the ladder—for it could scarcely be called a flight of stairs—and when he reached the fire-pan not a spark could be seen; so he had just to go back again to bed. But often, when he had got half way back, he would fancy the iron shutters of the door were not properly fastened, and his thin legs would carry him down again. And when at last he crept into bed, he would be so cold that his teeth chattered in his head. He would draw the coverlet closer round him, pull his nightcap over his eyes, and try to turn his thoughts from trade, and from the labors of the day, to olden times. But this was scarcely an agreeable entertainment; for thoughts of olden memories raise the curtains from the past, and sometimes pierce the heart with painful recollections till the agony brings tears to the waking eyes. And so it was with Anthony; often the scalding tears, like pearly drops, would fall from his eyes to the coverlet and roll on the floor with a sound as if one of his heartstrings had broken. Sometimes, with a lurid flame, memory would light up a picture of life which had never faded from his heart. If he dried his eyes with his nightcap, then the tear and the picture would be crushed; but the source of the tears remained and welled up again in his heart. The pictures did not follow one another in order, as the circumstances they represented had occurred; very often the most painful would come together, and when those came which were most full of joy, they had always the deepest shadow thrown upon them.
The beech woods of Denmark are acknowledged by every one to be very beautiful, but more beautiful still in the eyes of old Anthony were the beech woods in the neighborhood of Wartburg. More grand and venerable to him seemed the old oaks around the proud baronial castle, where the creeping plants hung over the stony summits of the rocks; sweeter was the perfume there of the apple-blossom than in all the land of Denmark. How vividly were represented to him, in a glittering tear that rolled down his cheek, two children at play—a boy and a girl. The boy had rosy cheeks, golden ringlets, and clear, blue eyes; he was the son of Anthony, a rich merchant; it was himself. The little girl had brown eyes and black hair, and was clever and courageous; she was the mayor’s daughter, Molly. The children were playing with an apple; they shook the apple, and heard the pips rattling in it. Then they cut it in two, and each of them took half. They also divided the pips and ate all but one, which the little girl proposed should be placed in the ground.
“You will see what will come out,” she said; “something you don’t expect. A whole apple-tree will come out, but not directly.” Then they got a flower-pot, filled it with earth, and were soon both very busy and eager about it. The boy made a hole in the earth with his finger, and the little girl placed the pip in the hole, and then they both covered it over with earth.
“Now you must not take it out to-morrow to see if it has taken root,” said Molly; “no one ever should do that. I did so with my flowers, but only twice; I wanted to see if they were growing. I didn’t know any better then, and the flowers all died.”
Little Anthony kept the flower-pot, and every morning during the whole winter he looked at it, but there was nothing to be seen but black earth. At last, however, the spring came, and the sun shone warm again, and then two little green leaves sprouted forth in the pot.
“They are Molly and me,” said the boy. “How wonderful they are, and so beautiful!”
Very soon a third leaf made its appearance.
“Who does that stand for?” thought he, and then came another and another. Day after day, and week after week, till the plant became quite a tree. And all this about the two children was mirrored to old Anthony in a single tear, which could soon be wiped away and disappear, but might come again from its source in the heart of the old man.
In the neighborhood of Eisenach stretches a ridge of stony mountains, one of which has a rounded outline, and shows itself above the rest without tree, bush, or grass on its barren summits. It is called the “Venus Mountain,” and the story goes that the “Lady Venus,” one of the heathen goddesses, keeps house there. She is also called “Lady Halle,” as every child round Eisenach well knows. She it was who enticed the noble knight, Tannhauser, the minstrel, from the circle of singers at Wartburg into her mountain.
Little Molly and Anthony often stood by this mountain, and one day Molly said, “Do you dare to knock and say, ‘Lady Halle, Lady Halle, open the door: Tannhauser is here!’” But Anthony did not dare. Molly, however, did, though she only said the words, “Lady Halle, Lady Halle,” loudly and distinctly; the rest she muttered so much under her breath that Anthony felt certain she had really said nothing; and yet she looked quite bold and saucy, just as she did sometimes when she was in the garden with a number of other little girls; they would all stand round him together, and want to kiss him, because he did not like to be kissed, and pushed them away. Then Molly was the only one who dared to resist him. “I may kiss him,” she would say proudly, as she threw her arms round his neck; she was vain of her power over Anthony, for he would submit quietly and think nothing of it. Molly was very charming, but rather bold; and how she did tease!
They said Lady Halle was beautiful, but her beauty was that of a tempting fiend. Saint Elizabeth, the tutelar saint of the land, the pious princess of Thuringia, whose good deeds have been immortalized in so many places through stories and legends, had greater beauty and more real grace. Her picture hung in the chapel, surrounded by silver lamps; but it did not in the least resemble Molly.
The apple-tree, which the two children had planted, grew year after year, till it became so large that it had to be transplanted into the garden, where the dew fell and the sun shone warmly. And there it increased in strength so much as to be able to withstand the cold of winter; and after passing through the severe weather, it seemed to put forth its blossoms in spring for very joy that the cold season had gone. In autumn it produced two apples, one for Molly and one for Anthony; it could not well do less. The tree after this grew very rapidly, and Molly grew with the tree. She was as fresh as an apple-blossom, but Anthony was not to behold this flower for long. All things change; Molly’s father left his old home, and Molly went with him far away. In our time, it would be only a journey of a few hours, but then it took more than a day and a night to travel so far eastward from Eisenbach to a town still called Weimar, on the borders of Thuringia. And Molly and Anthony both wept, but these tears all flowed together into one tear which had the rosy shimmer of joy. Molly had told him that she loved him—loved him more than all the splendors of Weimar.
One, two, three years went by, and during the whole time he received only two letters. One came by the carrier, and the other a traveller brought. The way was very long and difficult, with many turnings and windings through towns and villages. How often had Anthony and Molly heard the story of Tristan and Isolda, and Anthony had thought the story applied to him, although Tristan means born in sorrow, which Anthony certainly was not; nor was it likely he would ever say of Molly as Tristan said of Isolda, “She has forgotten me.” But in truth, Isolda had not forgotten him, her faithful friend; and when both were laid in their graves, one, on each side of the church, the linden-trees that grew by each grave spread over the roof, and, bending towards each other, mingled their blossoms together. Anthony thought it a very beautiful but mournful story; yet he never feared anything so sad would happen to him and Molly, as he passed the spot, whistling the air of a song, composed by the minstrel Walter, called the “Willow bird,” beginning—
“Under the linden-trees,
Out on the heath.”
One stanza pleased him exceedingly—
“Through the forest, and in the vale,
Sweetly warbles the nightingale.
This song was often in his mouth, and he sung or whistled it on a moonlight night, when he rode on horseback along the deep, hollow way, on his road to Weimar, to visit Molly. He wished to arrive unexpectedly, and so indeed he did. He was received with a hearty welcome, and introduced to plenty of grand and pleasant company, where overflowing winecups were passed about. A pretty room and a good bed were provided for him, and yet his reception was not what he had expected and dreamed it would be. He could not comprehend his own feelings nor the feelings of others; but it is easily understood how a person can be admitted into a house or a family without becoming one of them. We converse in company with those we meet, as we converse with our fellow-travellers in a stage-coach, on a journey; we know nothing of them, and perhaps all the while we are incommoding one another, and each is wishing himself or his neighbor away. Something of this kind Anthony felt when Molly talked to him of old times.
“I am a straightforward girl,” she said, “and I will tell you myself how it is. There have been great changes since we were children together; everything is different, both inwardly and outwardly. We cannot control our wills, nor the feelings of our hearts, by the force of custom. Anthony, I would not, for the world, make an enemy of you when I am far away. Believe me, I entertain for you the kindest wishes in my heart; but to feel for you what I now know can be felt for another man, can never be. You must try and reconcile yourself to this. Farewell, Anthony.”
Anthony also said, “Farewell.” Not a tear came into his eye; he felt he was no longer Molly’s friend. Hot iron and cold iron alike take the skin from our lips, and we feel the same sensation if we kiss either; and Anthony’s kiss was now the kiss of hatred, as it had once been the kiss of love. Within four-and-twenty hours Anthony was back again to Eisenach, though the horse that he rode was entirely ruined.
“What matters it?” said he; “I am ruined also. I will destroy everything that can remind me of her, or of Lady Halle, or Lady Venus, the heathen woman. I will break down the apple-tree, and tear it up by the roots; never more shall it blossom or bear fruit.”
The apple-tree was not broken down; for Anthony himself was struck with a fever, which caused him to break down, and confined him to his bed. But something occurred to raise him up again. What was it? A medicine was offered to him, which he was obliged to take: a bitter remedy, at which the sick body and the oppressed spirit alike shuddered. Anthony’s father lost all his property, and, from being known as one of the richest merchants, he became very poor. Dark days, heavy trials, with poverty at the door, came rolling into the house upon them like the waves of the sea. Sorrow and suffering deprived Anthony’s father of his strength, so that he had something else to think of besides nursing his love-sorrows and his anger against Molly. He had to take his father’s place, to give orders, to act with energy, to help, and, at last, to go out into the world and earn his bread. Anthony went to Bremen, and there he learnt what poverty and hard living really were. These things often harden the character, but sometimes soften the heart, even too much.
How different the world, and the people in it, appeared to Anthony now, to what he had thought in his childhood! What to him were the minstrel’s songs? An echo of the past, sounds long vanished. At times he would think in this way; yet again and again the songs would sound in his soul, and his heart become gentle and pious.
“God’s will is the best,” he would then say. “It was well that I was not allowed to keep my power over Molly’s heart, and that she did not remain true to me. How I should have felt it now, when fortune has deserted me! She left me before she knew of the change in my circumstances, or had a thought of what was before me. That is a merciful providence for me. All has happened for the best. She could not help it, and yet I have been so bitter, and in such enmity against her.”
Years passed by: Anthony’s father died, and strangers lived in the old house. He had seen it once again since then. His rich master sent him journeys on business, and on one occasion his way led him to his native town of Eisenach. The old Wartburg castle stood unchanged on the rock where the monk and the nun were hewn out of the stone. The great oaks formed an outline to the scene which he so well remembered in his childhood. The Venus mountain stood out gray and bare, overshadowing the valley beneath. He would have been glad to call out “Lady Halle, Lady Halle, unlock the mountain. I would fain remain here always in my native soil.” That was a sinful thought, and he offered a prayer to drive it away. Then a little bird in the thicket sang out clearly, and old Anthony thought of the minstrel’s song. How much came back to his remembrance as he looked through the tears once more on his native town! The old house was still standing as in olden times, but the garden had been greatly altered; a pathway led through a portion of the ground, and outside the garden, and beyond the path, stood the old apple-tree, which he had not broken down, although he talked of doing so in his trouble. The sun still threw its rays upon the tree, and the refreshing dew fell upon it as of old; and it was so overloaded with fruit that the branches bent towards the earth with the weight. “That flourishes still,” said he, as he gazed. One of the branches of the tree had, however, been broken: mischievous hands must have done this in passing, for the tree now stood in a public thoroughfare. “The blossoms are often plucked,” said Anthony; “the fruit is stolen and the branches broken without a thankful thought of their profusion and beauty. It might be said of a tree, as it has been said of some men—it was not predicted at his cradle that he should come to this. How brightly began the history of this tree, and what is it now? Forsaken and forgotten, in a garden by a hedge in a field, and close to a public road. There it stands, unsheltered, plundered, and broken. It certainly has not yet withered; but in the course of years the number of blossoms from time to time will grow less, and at last it was cease altogether to bear fruit; and then its history will be over.”
Such were Anthony’s thoughts as he stood under the tree, and during many a long night as he lay in his lonely chamber in the wooden house in Hauschen Street, Copenhagen, in the foreign land to which the rich merchant of Bremen, his employer, had sent him on condition that he should never marry. “Marry! ha, ha!” and he laughed bitterly to himself at the thought.
Winter one year set in early, and it was freezing hard. Without, a snowstorm made every one remain at home who could do so. Thus it happened that Anthony’s neighbors, who lived opposite to him, did not notice that his house remained unopened for two days, and that he had not showed himself during that time, for who would go out in such weather unless he were obliged to do so. They were gray, gloomy days, and in the house whose windows were not glass, twilight and dark nights reigned in turns. During these two days old Anthony had not left his bed, he had not the strength to do so. The bitter weather had for some time affected his limbs. There lay the old bachelor, forsaken by all, and unable to help himself. He could scarcely reach the water jug that he had placed by his bed, and the last drop was gone. It was not fever, nor sickness, but old age, that had laid him low. In the little corner, where his bed lay, he was over-shadowed as it were by perpetual night. A little spider, which he could however not see, busily and cheerfully spun its web above him, so that there should be a kind of little banner waving over the old man, when his eyes closed. The time passed slowly and painfully. He had no tears to shed, and he felt no pain; no thought of Molly came into his mind. He felt as if the world was now nothing to him, as if he were lying beyond it, with no one to think of him. Now and then he felt slight sensations of hunger and thirst; but no one came to him, no one tended him. He thought of all those who had once suffered from starvation, of Saint Elizabeth, who once wandered on the earth, the saint of his home and his childhood, the noble Duchess of Thuringia, that highly esteemed lady who visited the poorest villages, bringing hope and relief to the sick inmates. The recollection of her pious deeds was as light to the soul of poor Anthony. He thought of her as she went about speaking words of comfort, binding up the wounds of the afflicted and feeding the hungry, although often blamed for it by her stern husband. He remembered a story told of her, that on one occasion, when she was carrying a basket full of wine and provisions, her husband, who had watched her footsteps, stepped forward and asked her angrily what she carried in her basket, whereupon, with fear and trembling, she answered, “Roses, which I have plucked from the garden.” Then he tore away the cloth which covered the basket, and what could equal the surprise of the pious woman, to find that by a miracle, everything in her basket—the wine, the bread— had all been changed into roses.
In this way the memory of the kind lady dwelt in the calm mind of Anthony. She was as a living reality in his little dwelling in the Danish land. He uncovered his face that he might look into her gentle eyes, while everything around him changed from its look of poverty and want, to a bright rose tint. The fragrance of roses spread through the room, mingled with the sweet smell of apples. He saw the branches of an apple-tree spreading above him. It was the tree which he and Molly had planted together. The fragrant leaves of the tree fell upon him and cooled his burning brow; upon his parched lips they seemed like refreshing bread and wine; and as they rested on his breast, a peaceful calm stole over him, and he felt inclined to sleep. “I shall sleep now,” he whispered to himself. “Sleep will do me good. In the morning I shall be upon my feet again, strong and well. Glorious! wonderful! That apple-tree, planted in love, now appears before me in heavenly beauty.” And he slept.
The following day, the third day during which his house had been closed, the snow-storm ceased. Then his opposite neighbor stepped over to the house in which old Anthony lived, for he had not yet showed himself. There he lay stretched on his bed, dead, with his old nightcap tightly clasped in his two hands. The nightcap, however, was not placed on his head in his coffin; he had a clean white one on then. Where now were the tears he had shed? What had become of those wonderful pearls? They were in the nightcap still. Such tears as these cannot be washed out, even when the nightcap is forgotten. The old thoughts and dreams of a bachelor’s nightcap still remain. Never wish for such a nightcap. It would make your forehead hot, cause your pulse to beat with agitation, and conjure up dreams which would appear realities.
The first who wore old Anthony’s cap felt the truth of this, though it was half a century afterwards. That man was the mayor himself, who had already made a comfortable home for his wife and eleven children, by his industry. The moment he put the cap on he dreamed of unfortunate love, of bankruptcy, and of dark days. “Hallo! how the nightcap burns!” he exclaimed, as he tore it from his bead. Then a pearl rolled out, and then another, and another, and they glittered and sounded as they fell. “What can this be? Is it paralysis, or something dazzling my eyes?” They were the tears which old Anthony had shed half a century before.
To every one who afterwards put this cap on his head, came visions and dreams which agitated him not a little. His own history was changed into that of Anthony till it became quite a story, and many stories might be made by others, so we will leave them to relate their own. We have told the first; and our last word is, don’t wish for a “bachelor’s nightcap.”
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