A CHEERFUL TEMPER故事

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　　A CHEERFUL TEMPER故事
　　    FROM my father I received the best inheritance, namely a
　　    "good temper." "And who was my father?" That has nothing to do
　　    with the good temper; but I will say he was lively,
　　    good-looking round, and fat; he was both in appearance and
　　    character a complete contradiction to his profession. "And
　　    pray what was his profession and his standing in respectable
　　    society?" Well, perhaps, if in the beginning of a book these
　　    were written and printed, many, when they read it, would lay
　　    the book down and say, "It seems to me a very miserable title,
　　    I don't like things of this sort." And yet my father was not a
　　    skin-dresser nor an executioner; on the contrary, his
　　    employment placed him at the head of the grandest people of
　　    the town, and it was his place by right. He had to precede the
　　    bishop, and even the princes of the blood; he always went
　　    first,- he was a hearse driver! There, now, the truth is out.
　　    And I will own, that when people saw my father perched up in
　　    front of the omnibus of death, dressed in his long, wide,
　　    black cloak, and his black-edged, three-cornered hat on his
　　    head, and then glanced at his round, jocund face, round as the
　　    sun, they could not think much of sorrow or the grave. That
　　    face said, "It is nothing, it will all end better than people
　　    think." So I have inherited from him, not only my good temper,
　　    but a habit of going often to the churchyard, which is good,
　　    when done in a proper humor; and then also I take in the
　　    Intelligencer, just as he used to do.
　　    I am not very young, I have neither wife nor children, nor
　　    a library, but, as I said, I read the Intelligencer, which is
　　    enough for me; it is to me a delightful paper, and so it was
　　    to my father. It is of great use, for it contains all that a
　　    man requires to know; the names of the preachers at the
　　    church, and the new books which are published; where houses,
　　    servants, clothes, and provisions may be obtained. And then
　　    what a number of subscriptions to charities, and what innocent
            
            

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　　    verses! Persons seeking interviews and engagements, all so
　　    plainly and naturally stated. Certainly, a man who takes in
　　    the Intelligencer may live merrily and be buried contentedly,
　　    and by the end of his life will have such a capital stock of
　　    paper that he can lie on a soft bed of it, unless he prefers
　　    wood shavings for his resting-place. The newspaper and the
　　    churchyard were always exciting objects to me. My walks to the
　　    latter were like bathing-places to my good humor. Every one
　　    can read the newspaper for himself, but come with me to the
　　    churchyard while the sun shines and the trees are green, and
　　    let us wander among the graves. Each of them is like a closed
　　    book, with the back uppermost, on which we can read the title
　　    of what the book contains, but nothing more. I had a great
　　    deal of information from my father, and I have noticed a great
　　    deal myself. I keep it in my diary, in which I write for my
　　    own use and pleasure a history of all who lie here, and a few
　　    more beside.
　　    Now we are in the churchyard. Here, behind the white iron
　　    railings, once a rose-tree grew; it is gone now, but a little
　　    bit of evergreen, from a neighboring grave, stretches out its
　　    green tendrils, and makes some appearance; there rests a very
　　    unhappy man, and yet while he lived he might be said to occupy
　　    a very good position. He had enough to live upon, and
　　    something to spare; but owing to his refined tastes the least
　　    thing in the world annoyed him. If he went to a theatre of an
　　    evening, instead of enjoying himself he would be quite annoyed
　　    if the machinist had put too strong a light into one side of
　　    the moon, or if the representations of the sky hung over the
　　    scenes when they
　　ought to have hung behind them; or if a
　　    palm-tree was introduced into a scene representing the
　　    Zoological Gardens of Berlin, or a cactus in a view of Tyrol,
　　    or a beech-tree in the north of Norway. As if these things
　　    were of any consequence! Why did he not leave them alone? Who
　　    would trouble themselves about such trifles? especially at a
            
            

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　　    comedy, where every one is expected to be amused. Then
　　    sometimes the public applauded too much, or too little, to
　　    please him. "They are like wet wood," he would say, looking
　　    round to see what sort of people were present, "this evening;
　　    nothing fires them." Then he would vex and fret himself
　　    because they did not laugh at the right time, or because they
　　    laughed in the wrong places; and so he fretted and worried
　　    himself till at last the unhappy man fretted himself into the
　　    grave.
　　    Here rests a happy man, that is to say, a man of high
　　    birth and position, which was very lucky for him, otherwise he
　　    would have been scarcely worth notice. It is beautiful to
　　    observe how wisely nature orders these things. He walked about
　　    in a coat embroidered all over, and in the drawing-rooms of
　　    society looked just like one of those rich pearl-embroidered
　　    bell-pulls, which are only made for show; and behind them
　　    always hangs a good thick cord for use. This man also had a
　　    stout, useful substitute behind him, who did duty for him, and
　　    performed all his dirty work. And there are still, even now,
　　    these serviceable cords behind other embroidered bell-ropes.
　　    It is all so wisely arranged, that a man may well be in a good
　　    humor.
　　    Here rests,- ah, it makes one feel mournful to think of
　　    him!- but here rests a man who, during sixty-seven years, was
　　    never remembered to have said a good thing; he lived only in
　　    the hope of having a good idea. At last he felt convinced, in
　　    his own mind, that he really had one, and was so delighted
　　    that he positively died of joy at the thought of having at
　　    last caught an idea. Nobody got anything by it; indeed, no one
　　    even heard what the good thing was. Now I can imagine that
　　    this same idea may prevent him from resting quietly in his
　　    grave; for suppose that to produce a good effect, it is
　　    necessary to bring out his new idea at breakfast, and that he
　　    can only make his appearance on earth at midnight, as ghosts
　　    are believed generally to do; why then this good idea would
            
            

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　　    not suit the hour, and the man would have to carry it down
　　    again with him into the grave- that must be a troubled grave.
　　    The woman who lies here was so remarkably stingy, that
　　    during her life she would get up in the night and mew, that
　　    her neighbors might think she kept a cat. What a miser she
　　    was!
　　    Here rests a young lady, of a good family, who would
　　    always make her voice heard in society, and when she sang "Mi
　　    manca la voce,"* it was the only true thing she ever said in
　　    her life.
　　    * "I want a voice," or, "I have no voice."
　　    Here lies a maiden of another description. She was engaged
　　    to be married,- but, her story is one of every-day life; we
　　    will leave her to rest in the grave.
　　    Here rests a widow, who, with music in her tongue, carried
　　    gall in her heart. She used to go round among the families
　　    near, and search out their faults, upon which she preyed with
　　    all the envy and malice of her nature. This is a family grave.
　　    The members of this family held so firmly together in their
　　    opinions, that they would believe in no other. If the
　　    newspapers, or even the whole world, said of a certain
　　    subject, "It is so-and-so;" and a little schoolboy declared he
　　    had learned quite differently, they would take his assertion
　　    as the only true one, because he belonged to the family. And
　　    it is well known that if the yard-cock belonging to this
　　    family happened to crow at midnight, they would declare it was
　　    morning, although the watchman and all the clocks in the town
　　    were proclaiming the hour of twelve at night.
　　    The great poet Goethe concludes his Faust with the words,
　　    "may be continued;" so might our wanderings in the churchyard
　　    be continued. I come here often, and if any of my friends, or
　　    those who are not my friends, are too much for me, I go out
　　    and choose a plot of ground in which to bury him or her. Then
　　    I bury them, as it were; there they lie, dead and powerless,
　　    till they come back new and better characters. Their lives and
            
            

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　　    their deeds, looked at after my own fashion, I write down in
　　    my diary, as every one ought to do. Then, if any of our
　　    friends act absurdly, no one need to be vexed about it. Let
　　    them bury the offenders out of sight, and keep their good
　　    temper. They can also read the Intelligencer, which is a paper
　　    written by the people, with their hands guided. When the time
　　    comes for the history of my life, to be bound by the grave,
　　    then they will write upon it as my epitaph-
　　    "The man with a cheerful temper."
　　    And this is my story.
　　    THE END