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安徒生童話故事第62篇：好心境A Cheerful Temper
引導語：好心境是一種思想感情?下面是關于《好心境》的安徒生童話故事，還有英文版，歡迎大家閱讀!
我從我父親那里繼承了一筆最好的遺產：我有一個好心境。那么誰是我的父親呢?咳，這跟好的心境沒有什么關系!他是一個心寬體胖的人，又圓又肥。他的外表和內心跟他的職業完全不相稱。那么，他的職業和社會地位是怎樣的呢?是的，如果把這寫下來，印在一本書的開頭，很可能許多人一讀到它就會把書扔掉，說：“這使我感到真不舒服，我不要讀這類的東西。”但是我的父親既不是一個殺馬的屠夫，也不是一個劊子手。相反地，他的職業卻使他站在城里最尊貴的人的面前。這是他的權利，也是他的地位。他得走在前面，在主教的前面，在純血統的王子前面，他老是走在前面——因為他是一個趕柩車的人!
你看，我把真情說出來了!我可以說，當人們看見我的父親高高地坐在死神的交通車上，穿著一件又長又寬的黑披風，頭上戴著一頂綴有黑紗的三角帽，加上他那一副像太陽一樣的圓圓的笑臉，人們恐怕很難想到墳墓和悲哀了。他的那副圓面孔說：“不要怕，那比你所想象的要好得多!”
你看，我繼承了他的“好心境”和一個經常拜訪墓地的習慣。如果你懷著“好心境”去，那倒是蠻痛快的事情。像他一樣，我也訂閱《新聞報》。
我并不太年輕。我既沒有老婆，又沒有孩子，也沒有書。不過，像前面說過了的，我訂閱《新聞報》。它是我最心愛的一種報紙，也是我父親最心愛的一種報紙。它的用處很大，一個人所需要知道的東西里面全有——比如：誰在教堂里講道，誰在新書里說教;在什么地方你可以找到房子和傭人，買到衣服和食物;誰在拍賣東西，誰在破產。人們還可以在上面讀到許多慈善事情和天真無邪的詩!此外還有征婚、訂約會和拒絕約會的廣告等——一切都是非常簡單和自然!一個人如果訂閱《新聞報》，他就可以很愉快地生活著，很愉快地走進墳墓里去。同時在他壽終正寢的時候，他可以有一大堆報紙，舒舒服服地睡在上面——假如他不愿意睡在刨花上的話。
《新聞報》和墓地是我精神上兩件最富有刺激性的消遣，是我的好心境的最舒適的浴泉。
當然誰都可以閱讀《新聞報》。不過請你一塊兒跟我到墓地來吧。當太陽在照著的時候，當樹兒變綠了的時候，我們到墓地去吧。我們可以在墳墓之間走走!每座墳像一本背脊朝上的。合著的書本——你只能看到書名。它說明書的內容，但同時什么東西也沒有說明。不過我知道它的內容——我從我的父親和我自己知道的。我的“墳墓書”都把它記載了下來，這是我自己作為參考和消遣所寫的一本書。所有的事情都寫在里面，還有其他更多的東西。
現在我們來到了墓地。
這兒，在一排涂了白漆的欄柵后面，曾經長著一棵玫瑰樹。它現在已經沒有了，不過從鄰近墳上的一小棵常青樹伸過來的枝子，似乎彌補了這個損失。在這兒躺著一個非常不幸的人;但是，當他活著的時候，他的生活很好，即一般人所謂的“小康”。他的收人還有一點剩余。不過他太喜歡關心這個世界——或者更正確地說，關心藝術。當他晚間坐在戲院里以全副精神欣賞戲的時候，如果布景人把月亮兩邊的燈光弄得太強了一點，或者把本來應該放在景后邊的天空懸在景上面，或者把棕桐樹放在亞馬格爾①的風景里，或者把仙人掌放在蒂洛爾②的風景里，或者把山毛櫸放在挪威的北部，他就忍受不了。這是什么大不了的事情，誰會去理它呢?誰會為這些瑣事而感到不安呢?這無非是在做戲，其目的是給人娛樂。觀眾有時大鼓一頓掌，有時只略微鼓幾下。
“這簡直是濕柴火，”他說。“它今晚一點也燃不起來!”于是他就向四周望，看看這些觀眾究竟是什么人。他發現他們笑得不是時候：他們在不應當笑的地方卻大笑了——這使得他心煩，坐立不安，成為一個不幸的人。現在他躺在墳墓里。
這兒躺著一個非常幸福的人，這也就是說——一位大人物。他出身很高貴，而這是他的幸運，否則他也就永遠是一個渺小的人了。不過大自然把一切安排得很聰明，我們一想起這點就覺得很愉快。他過去常穿著前后都繡了花的衣服，在沙龍的社交場合出現，像那些鑲得有珍珠的拉鈴繩的把手一樣——它后面老是有一根很適用的粗繩子在代替它做工作。他后邊也有一根很粗的好繩子——一個替身——代替他做工作，而且現在仍然在另一個鑲有珍珠的新把手后面做工作。樣樣事情都安排得這樣聰明，使人很容易獲得好心境。
這兒躺著——唔，想起來很傷心!——這兒躺著一個人，他花了67年的光陰要想說出一個偉大的思想。他活著就是為了要找到一個偉大的思想。最后他相信他找到了。因此他很高興，他終于懷著這個偉大的思想死去。誰也沒有得到這個偉大思想的好處，誰也沒有聽到過這個偉大的思想。現在我想，這個偉大的思想使他不能在墳墓里休息：比如說吧，這個好思想只有在吃早飯的時候說出來才能有效，而他，根據一般人關于幽靈的看法，只能在半夜才能升起來和走動。那么他的偉大的思想與時間的條件不合。誰也不會發笑，他只好把他的偉大思想又帶進墳墓里去。所以這是一座憂郁的墳墓。
這兒躺著一個異常吝嗇的婦人。在她活著的時候，她常常夜間起來，學著貓叫，使鄰人相信她養了一只貓——她是那么地吝嗇!
這兒躺著一個出自名門的小姐，她跟別人在一起的時候，總是希望人們聽到她的歌聲。她唱：“mi manca la voce!”③這是她生命中一件唯一真實的事情。
這兒躺著一個另一類型的姑娘!當心里的金絲雀在歌唱著的時候，理智的指頭就來塞住她的耳朵。這位美麗的姑娘總是“差不多快要結婚了”。不過——唔，這是一個老故事……不過說得好聽一點罷了。我們還是讓死者休息吧。
這兒躺著一個寡婦。她嘴里滿是天鵝的歌聲，但她的心中卻藏著貓頭鷹的膽汁。她常常到鄰家去獵取人家的缺點。這很像古時的“警察朋友”，他跑來跑去想要找到一座并不存在的陰溝上的橋。
這兒是一個家庭的墳地。這家庭的每一分子都相信，假如整個世界和報紙說“如此這般”，而他們的小孩從學校里回來說：“我聽到的是那樣，”那么他的說法就是唯一的真理，因為他是這家里的一分子。大家也都知道：如果這家里的一個公雞在半夜啼叫，這家的人就要說這是天明，雖然守夜人和城里所有的鐘都說這是半夜。
偉大的詩人歌德在他的《浮士德》的結尾說了這樣的話：“可能繼續下去。”我們在墓地里的散步也是這樣。我常常到這兒來!如果我的任何朋友，或者敵人弄得我活不下去的話，我就來到這塊地方，揀一塊綠草地，獻給我打算埋掉的他或她，立刻把他們埋葬掉。他們躺在那兒，沒有生命，沒有力量，直到他們變成更新和更好的人才活轉來。我把他們的生活和事跡，依照我的看法，在我的“墳墓書”上記錄下來，用我的一套看法去研究它們。大家也應該這樣做。當人們做了太對不起人的事情的時候，你不應該只感覺苦惱，而應該立刻把他們埋葬掉，同時保持自己的好心境和閱讀《新聞報》——這報紙上的文章是由許多人寫成的，但是有一只手在那里牽線。
有一天.當我應該把我自己和我的故事裝進墳墓里去的時候，我希望人們寫這樣一個墓志銘：
“一個好心境的人!”
這就是我的故事。
①亞馬格爾(Amager)是離哥本哈根不遠的一個海島。
②蒂洛爾(Tyrol)是奧地利的一個多山的省份。
③這是一句意大利文，直譯的意義是：“我就是沒有一個好聲音。”
好心境英文版：
A Cheerful Temper
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 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 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 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,”1 it was the only true thing she ever said in her life.
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 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.
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