幸运的套鞋
幸运的套鞋THE SHOES OF FORTUNE （注：中英译文有出入 ）
I. A Beginning
Every author has some peculiarity in his descriptions or in his style of
writing. Those who do not like him, magnify it, shrug up their shoulders, and
exclaim--there he is again! I, for my part, know very well how I can bring
about this movement and this exclamation. It would happen immediately if I
were to begin here, as I intended to do, with: "Rome has its Corso, Naples its
Toledo"--"Ah! that Andersen; there he is again!" they would cry; yet I must,
to please my fancy, continue quite quietly, and add: "But Copenhagen has its
East Street."
Here, then, we will stay for the present. In one of the houses not far from
the new market a party was invited--a very large party, in order, as is often
the case, to get a return invitation from the others. One half of the company
was already seated at the card-table, the other half awaited the result of the
stereotype preliminary observation of the lady of the house:
"Now let us see what we can do to amuse ourselves."
They had got just so far, and the conversation began to crystallise, as it
could but do with the scanty stream which the commonplace world supplied.
Amongst other things they spoke of the middle ages: some praised that period
as far more interesting, far more poetical than our own too sober present;
indeed Councillor Knap defended this opinion so warmly, that the hostess
declared immediately on his side, and both exerted themselves with unwearied
eloquence. The Councillor boldly declared the time of King Hans to be the
noblest and the most happy period.*
* A.D. 1482-1513
While the conversation turned on this subject, and was only for a moment
interrupted by the arrival of a journal that contained nothing worth reading,
we will just step out into the antechamber, where cloaks, mackintoshes,
sticks, umbrellas, and shoes, were deposited. Here sat two female figures, a
young and an old one. One might have thought at first they were servants come
to accompany their mistresses home; but on looking nearer, one soon saw they
could scarcely be mere servants; their forms were too noble for that, their
skin too fine, the cut of their dress too striking. Two fairies were they; the
younger, it is true, was not Dame Fortune herself, but one of the
waiting-maids of her handmaidens who carry about the lesser good things that
she distributes; the other looked extremely gloomy--it was Care. She always
attends to her own serious business herself, as then she is sure of having it
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done properly.
They were telling each other, with a confidential interchange of ideas, where
they had been during the day. The messenger of Fortune had only executed a few
unimportant commissions, such as saving a new bonnet from a shower of rain,
etc.; but what she had yet to perform was something quite unusual.
"I must tell you," said she, "that to-day is my birthday; and in honor of it,
a pair of walking-shoes or galoshes has been entrusted to me, which I am to
carry to mankind. These shoes possess the property of instantly transporting
him who has them on to the place or the period in which he most wishes to be;
every wish, as regards time or place, or state of being, will be immediately
fulfilled, and so at last man will be happy, here below."
"Do you seriously believe it?" replied Care, in a severe tone of reproach.
"No; he will be very unhappy, and will assuredly bless the moment when he
feels that he has freed himself from the fatal shoes."
"Stupid nonsense!" said the other angrily. "I will put them here by the door.
Some one will make a mistake for certain and take the wrong ones--he will be a
happy man."
Such was their conversation.
II. What Happened to the Councillor
It was late; Councillor Knap, deeply occupied with the times of King Hans,
intended to go home, and malicious Fate managed matters so that his feet,
instead of finding their way to his own galoshes, slipped into those of
Fortune. Thus caparisoned the good man walked out of the well-lighted rooms
into East Street. By the magic power of the shoes he was carried back to the
times of King Hans; on which account his foot very naturally sank in the mud
and puddles of the street, there having been in those days no pavement in
Copenhagen.
"Well! This is too bad! How dirty it is here!" sighed the Councillor. "As to a
pavement, I can find no traces of one, and all the lamps, it seems, have gone
to sleep."
The moon was not yet very high; it was besides rather foggy, so that in the
darkness all objects seemed mingled in chaotic confusion. At the next corner
hung a votive lamp before a Madonna, but the light it gave was little better
than none at all; indeed, he did not observe it before he was exactly under
it, and his eyes fell upon the bright colors of the pictures which represented
the well-known group of the Virgin and the infant Jesus.
"That is probably a wax-work show," thought he; "and the people delay taking
down their sign in hopes of a late visitor or two."
A few persons in the costume of the time of King Hans passed quickly by him.
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"How strange they look! The good folks come probably from a masquerade!"
Suddenly was heard the sound of drums and fifes; the bright blaze of a fire
shot up from time to time, and its ruddy gleams seemed to contend with the
bluish light of the torches. The Councillor stood still, and watched a most
strange procession pass by. First came a dozen drummers, who understood pretty
well how to handle their instruments; then came halberdiers, and some armed
with cross-bows. The principal person in the procession was a priest.
Astonished at what he saw, the Councillor asked what was the meaning of
all this mummery, and who that man was.
"That's the Bishop of Zealand," was the answer.
"Good Heavens! What has taken possession of the Bishop?" sighed the
Councillor, shaking his head. It certainly could not be the Bishop; even
though he was considered the most absent man in the whole kingdom, and people
told the drollest anecdotes about him. Reflecting on the matter, and without
looking right or left, the Councillor went through East Street and across the
Habro-Platz. The bridge leading to Palace Square was not to be found; scarcely
trusting his senses, the nocturnal wanderer discovered a shallow piece of
water, and here fell in with two men who very comfortably were rocking to and
fro in a boat.
"Does your honor want to cross the ferry to the Holme?" asked they.
"Across to the Holme!" said the Councillor, who knew nothing of the age in
which he at that moment was. "No, I am going to Christianshafen, to Little
Market Street."
Both men stared at him in astonishment.
"Only just tell me where the bridge is," said he. "It is really unpardonable
that there are no lamps here; and it is as dirty as if one had to wade through
a morass."
The longer he spoke with the boatmen, the more unintelligible did their
language become to him.
"I don't understand your Bornholmish dialect," said he at last, angrily, and
turning his back upon them. He was unable to find the bridge: there was no
railway either. "It is really disgraceful what a state this place is in,"
muttered he to himself. Never had his age, with which, however, he was always
grumbling, seemed so miserable as on this evening. "I'll take a
hackney-coach!" thought he. But where were the hackney-coaches? Not one
was to be seen.
"I must go back to the New Market; there, it is to be hoped, I shall find some
coaches; for if I don't, I shall never get safe to Christianshafen."
So off he went in the direction of East Street, and had nearly got to the end
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of it when the moon shone forth.
"God bless me! What wooden scaffolding is that which they have set up there?"
cried he involuntarily, as he looked at East Gate, which, in those days, was
at the end of East Street.
He found, however, a little side-door open, and through this he went, and
stepped into our New Market of the present time. It was a huge desolate plain;
some wild bushes stood up here and there, while across the field flowed a
broad canal or river. Some wretched hovels for the Dutch sailors, resembling
great boxes, and after which the place was named, lay about in confused
disorder on the opposite bank.
"I either behold a fata morgana, or I am regularly tipsy," whimpered out the
Councillor. "But what's this?"
He turned round anew, firmly convinced that he was seriously ill. He gazed at
the street formerly so well known to him, and now so strange in appearance,
and looked at the houses more attentively: most of them were of wood, slightly
put together; and many had a thatched roof.
"No--I am far from well," sighed he; "and yet I drank only one glass of punch;
but I cannot suppose it--it was, too, really very wrong to give us punch and
hot salmon for supper. I shall speak about it at the first opportunity. I have
half a mind to go back again, and say what I suffer. But no, that would be too
silly; and Heaven only knows if they are up still."
He looked for the house, but it had vanished.
"It is really dreadful," groaned he with increasing anxiety; "I cannot
recognise East Street again; there is not a single decent shop from one end to
the other! Nothing but wretched huts can I see anywhere; just as if I were at
Ringstead. Oh! I am ill! I can scarcely bear myself any longer. Where the
deuce can the house be? It must be here on this very spot; yet there is not
the slightest idea of resemblance, to such a degree has everything changed
this night! At all events here are some people up and stirring. Oh! oh! I am
certainly very ill."
He now hit upon a half-open door, through a chink of which a faint light
shone. It was a sort of hostelry of those times; a kind of public-house. The
room had some resemblance to the clay-floored halls in Holstein; a pretty
numerous company, consisting of seamen, Copenhagen burghers, and a few
scholars, sat here in deep converse over their pewter cans, and gave little
heed to the person who entered.
"By your leave!" said the Councillor to the Hostess, who came bustling towards
him. "I've felt so queer all of a sudden; would you have the goodness to send
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for a hackney-coach to take me to Christianshafen?"
The woman examined him with eyes of astonishment, and shook her head; she then
addressed him in German. The Councillor thought she did not understand Danish,
and therefore repeated his wish in German. This, in connection with his
costume, strengthened the good woman in the belief that he was a foreigner.
That he was ill, she comprehended directly; so she brought him a pitcher of
water, which tasted certainly pretty strong of the sea, although it had been
fetched from the well.
The Councillor supported his head on his hand, drew a long breath, and thought
over all the wondrous things he saw around him.
"Is this the Daily News of this evening?" he asked mechanically, as he saw the
Hostess push aside a large sheet of paper.
The meaning of this councillorship query remained, of course, a riddle to her,
yet she handed him the paper without replying. It was a coarse wood-cut,
representing a splendid meteor "as seen in the town of Cologne," which was to
be read below in bright letters.
"That is very old!" said the Councillor, whom this piece of antiquity began to
make considerably more cheerful. "Pray how did you come into possession of
this rare print? It is extremely interesting, although the whole is a mere
fable. Such meteorous appearances are to be explained in this way--that they
are the reflections of the Aurora Borealis, and it is highly probable they are
caused principally by electricity."
Those persons who were sitting nearest him and heard his speech, stared at him
in wonderment; and one of them rose, took off his hat respectfully, and said
with a serious countenance, "You are no doubt a very learned man, Monsieur."
"Oh no," answered the Councillor, "I can only join in conversation on this
topic and on that, as indeed one must do according to the demands of the world
at present."
"Modestia is a fine virtue," continued the gentleman; "however, as to your
speech, I must say mihi secus videtur: yet I am willing to suspend my
judicium."
"May I ask with whom I have the pleasure of speaking?" asked the Councillor.
"I am a Bachelor in Theologia," answered the gentleman with a stiff reverence.
This reply fully satisfied the Councillor; the title suited the dress. "He is
certainly," thought he, "some village schoolmaster--some queer old fellow,
such as one still often meets with in Jutland."
"This is no locus docendi, it is true," began the clerical gentleman; "yet I
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beg you earnestly to let us profit by your learning. Your reading in the
ancients is, sine dubio, of vast extent?"
"Oh yes, I've read something, to be sure," replied the Councillor. "I like
reading all useful works; but I do not on that account despise the modern
ones; 'tis only the unfortunate 'Tales of Every-day Life' that I cannot
bear--we have enough and more than enough such in reality."
"'Tales of Every-day Life?'" said our Bachelor inquiringly.
"I mean those new fangled novels, twisting and writhing themselves in the dust
of commonplace, which also expect to find a reading public."
"Oh," exclaimed the clerical gentleman smiling, "there is much wit in them;
besides they are read at court. The King likes the history of Sir Iffven and
Sir Gaudian particularly, which treats of King Arthur, and his Knights of the
Round Table; he has more than once joked about it with his high vassals."
"I have not read that novel," said the Councillor; "it must be quite a new
one, that Heiberg has published lately."
"No," answered the theologian of the time of King Hans: "that book is not
written by a Heiberg, but was imprinted by Godfrey von Gehmen."
"Oh, is that the author's name?" said the Councillor. "It is a very old name,
and, as well as I recollect, he was the first printer that appeared in
Denmark."
"Yes, he is our first printer," replied the clerical gentleman hastily.
So far all went on well. Some one of the worthy burghers now spoke of the
dreadful pestilence that had raged in the country a few years back, meaning
that of 1484. The Councillor imagined it was the cholera that was meant, which
people made so much fuss about; and the discourse passed off satisfactorily
enough. The war of the buccaneers of 1490 was so recent that it could not fail
being alluded to; the English pirates had, they said, most shamefully taken
their ships while in the roadstead; and the Councillor, before whose eyes the
Herostratic* event of 1801 still floated vividly, agreed entirely with the
others in abusing the rascally English. With other topics he was not so
fortunate; every moment brought about some new confusion, and threatened to
become a perfect Babel; for the worthy Bachelor was really too ignorant, and
the simplest observations of the Councillor sounded to him too daring and
phantastical. They looked at one another from the crown of the head to the
soles of the feet; and when matters grew to too high a pitch, then the
Bachelor talked Latin, in the hope of being better understood--but it was of
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no use after all.
* Herostratus, or Eratostratus--an Ephesian, who wantonly set fire to the
famous temple of Diana, in order to commemorate his name by so uncommon an
action.
"What's the matter?" asked the Hostess, plucking the Councillor by the sleeve;
and now his recollection returned, for in the course of the conversation he
had entirely forgotten all that had preceded it.
"Merciful God, where am I!" exclaimed he in agony; and while he so thought,
all his ideas and feelings of overpowering dizziness, against which he
struggled with the utmost power of desperation, encompassed him with renewed
force. "Let us drink claret and mead, and Bremen beer," shouted one of the
guests--"and you shall drink with us!"
Two maidens approached. One wore a cap of two staring colors, denoting the
class of persons to which she belonged. They poured out the liquor, and made
the most friendly gesticulations; while a cold perspiration trickled down the
back of the poor Councillor.
"What's to be the end of this! What's to become of me!" groaned he; but he was
forced, in spite of his opposition, to drink with the rest. They took hold of
the worthy man; who, hearing on every side that he was intoxicated, did not in
the least doubt the truth of this certainly not very polite assertion; but on
the contrary, implored the ladies and gentlemen present to procure him a
hackney-coach: they, however, imagined he was talking Russian.
Never before, he thought, had he been in such a coarse and ignorant company;
one might almost fancy the people had turned heathens again. "It is the most
dreadful moment of my life: the whole world is leagued against me!" But
suddenly it occurred to him that he might stoop down under the table, and then
creep unobserved out of the door. He did so; but just as he was going, the
others remarked what he was about; they laid hold of him by the legs; and now,
happily for him, off fell his fatal shoes--and with them the charm was at an
end.
The Councillor saw quite distinctly before him a lantern burning, and behind
this a large handsome house. All seemed to him in proper order as usual; it
was East Street, splendid and elegant as we now see it. He lay with his feet
towards a doorway, and exactly opposite sat the watchman asleep.
"Gracious Heaven!" said he. "Have I lain here in the street and dreamed? Yes;
'tis East Street! How splendid and light it is! But really it is terrible
what an effect that one glass of punch must have had on me!"
Two minutes later, he was sitting in a hackney-coach and driving to
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Frederickshafen. He thought of the distress and agony he had endured, and
praised from the very bottom of his heart the happy reality--our own
time--which, with all its deficiencies, is yet much better than that in which,
so much against his inclination, he had lately been.
III. The Watchman's Adventure
"Why, there is a pair of galoshes, as sure as I'm alive!" said the watchman,
awaking from a gentle slumber. "They belong no doubt to the lieutenant who
lives over the way. They lie close to the door."
The worthy man was inclined to ring and deliver them at the house, for there
was still a light in the window; but he did not like disturbing the other
people in their beds, and so very considerately he left the matter alone.
"Such a pair of shoes must be very warm and comfortable," said he; "the
leather is so soft and supple." They fitted his feet as though they had been
made for him. "'Tis a curious world we live in," continued he, soliloquizing.
"There is the lieutenant, now, who might go quietly to bed if he chose, where
no doubt he could stretch himself at his ease; but does he do it? No; he
saunters up and down his room, because, probably, he has enjoyed too many of
the good things of this world at his dinner. That's a happy fellow! He has
neither an infirm mother, nor a whole troop of everlastingly hungry children
to torment him. Every evening he goes to a party, where his nice supper costs
him nothing: would to Heaven I could but change with him! How happy should I
be!"
While expressing his wish, the charm of the shoes, which he had put on, began
to work; the watchman entered into the being and nature of the lieutenant. He
stood in the handsomely furnished apartment, and held between his fingers a
small sheet of rose-colored paper, on which some verses were written--written
indeed by the officer himself; for who has not, at least once in his life,
had a lyrical moment? And if one then marks down one's thoughts, poetry is
produced. But here was written:
OH, WERE I RICH!
"Oh, were I rich! Such was my wish, yea such
When hardly three feet high, I longed for much.
Oh, were I rich! an officer were I,
With sword, and uniform, and plume so high.
And the time came, and officer was I!
But yet I grew not rich. Alas, poor me!
Have pity, Thou, who all man's wants dost see.
"I sat one evening sunk in dreams of bliss,
A maid of seven years old gave me a kiss,
I at that time was rich in poesy
And tales of old, though poor as poor could be;
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But all she asked for was this poesy.
Then was I rich, but not in gold, poor me!
As Thou dost know, who all men's hearts canst see.
"Oh, were I rich! Oft asked I for this boon.
The child grew up to womanhood full soon.
She is so pretty, clever, and so kind
Oh, did she know what's hidden in my mind--
A tale of old. Would she to me were kind!
But I'm condemned to silence! oh, poor me!
As Thou dost know, who all men's hearts canst see.
"Oh, were I rich in calm and peace of mind,
My grief you then would not here written find!
O thou, to whom I do my heart devote,
Oh read this page of glad days now remote,
A dark, dark tale, which I tonight devote!
Dark is the future now. Alas, poor me!
Have pity Thou, who all men's pains dost see."
Such verses as these people write when they are in love! But no man in his
senses ever thinks of printing them. Here one of the sorrows of life, in which
there is real poetry, gave itself vent; not that barren grief which the poet
may only hint at, but never depict in its detail--misery and want: that animal
necessity, in short, to snatch at least at a fallen leaf of the bread-fruit
tree, if not at the fruit itself. The higher the position in which one finds
oneself transplanted, the greater is the suffering. Everyday necessity is the
stagnant pool of life--no lovely picture reflects itself therein. Lieutenant,
love, and lack of money--that is a symbolic triangle, or much the same as the
half of the shattered die of Fortune. This the lieutenant felt most
poignantly, and this was the reason he leant his head against the window, and
sighed so deeply.
"The poor watchman out there in the street is far happier than I. He knows not
what I term privation. He has a home, a wife, and children, who weep with him
over his sorrows, who rejoice with him when he is glad. Oh, far happier were
I, could I exchange with him my being--with his desires and with his hopes
perform the weary pilgrimage of life! Oh, he is a hundred times happier than
I!"
In the same moment the watchman was again watchman. It was the shoes that
caused the metamorphosis by means of which, unknown to himself, he took upon
him the thoughts and feelings of the officer; but, as we have just seen, he
felt himself in his new situation much less contented, and now preferred the
very thing which but some minutes before he had rejected. So then the watchman
was again watchman.
"That was an unpleasant dream," said he; "but 'twas droll enough altogether. I
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fancied that I was the lieutenant over there: and yet the thing was not very
much to my taste after all. I missed my good old mother and the dear little
ones; who almost tear me to pieces for sheer love."
He seated himself once more and nodded: the dream continued to haunt him, for
he still had the shoes on his feet. A falling star shone in the dark
firmament.
"There falls another star," said he: "but what does it matter; there are
always enough left. I should not much mind examining the little glimmering
things somewhat nearer, especially the moon; for that would not slip so easily
through a man's fingers. When we die--so at least says the student, for whom
my wife does the washing--we shall fly about as light as a feather from one
such a star to the other. That's, of course, not true: but 'twould be pretty
enough if it were so. If I could but once take a leap up there, my body might
stay here on the steps for what I care."
Behold--there are certain things in the world to which one ought never to give
utterance except with the greatest caution; but doubly careful must one be
when we have the Shoes of Fortune on our feet. Now just listen to what
happened to the watchman.
As to ourselves, we all know the speed produced by the employment of steam; we
have experienced it either on railroads, or in boats when crossing the sea;
but such a flight is like the travelling of a sloth in comparison with the
velocity with which light moves. It flies nineteen million times faster than
the best race-horse; and yet electricity is quicker still. Death is an
electric shock which our heart receives; the freed soul soars upwards on the
wings of electricity. The sun's light wants eight minutes and some seconds to
perform a journey of more than twenty million of our Danish* miles; borne by
electricity, the soul wants even some minutes less to accomplish the same
flight. To it the space between the heavenly bodies is not greater than the
distance between the homes of our friends in town is for us, even if they live
a short way from each other; such an electric shock in the heart, however,
costs us the use of the body here below; unless, like the watchman of East
Street, we happen to have on the Shoes of Fortune.
* A Danish mile is nearly 4 3/4 English.
In a few seconds the watchman had done the fifty-two thousand of our miles up
to the moon, which, as everyone knows, was formed out of matter much lighter
than our earth; and is, so we should say, as soft as newly-fallen snow. He
found himself on one of the many circumjacent mountain-ridges with which we