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安徒生童話故事第120篇：金黃的寶貝The Golden Treasure
引導語：著名作家安徒生童話《金黃的寶貝》，大家閱讀過?歡迎大家閱讀下面小編整理的這篇童話故事的中英文版本。
一個鼓手的妻子到教堂里去。她看見新的祭壇上有許多畫像和雕刻的安琪兒;那些在布上套上顏色和罩著光圈的像是那么美，那些著上色和鍍了金的木雕的像也是那么美。他們的頭發像金子和太陽光，非�？蓯邸２贿^上帝的太陽光比那還要可愛。當太陽落下去的時候，它在蒼郁的樹叢中照著，顯得更亮，更紅。直接看到上帝的面孔是非常幸福的。她是在直接望著這個鮮紅的太陽，于是她墜入深思里去，想起鸛鳥將會送來的那個小家伙。①于是鼓手的妻子就變得非常高興起來。她看了又看，希望她的小孩也能帶來這種光輝，最低限度要像祭臺上一個發著光的安琪兒。
當她真正把抱在手里的一個小孩子舉向爸爸的時候，他的樣子真像教堂里的一個安琪兒。他長了一頭金發——落日的光輝真的附在他頭上了。
“我的金黃的寶貝，我的財富，我的太陽!”母親說。于是吻著他閃亮的鬈發。她的吻像鼓手房中的音樂和歌聲;這里面有快樂，有生命，有動作。鼓手就敲了一陣鼓——一陣快樂的鼓聲。這只鼓——這只火警鼓——就說：
“紅頭發!小家伙長了一頭紅頭發!請相信鼓兒的皮，不要相信媽媽講的話吧!咚——隆咚，隆咚!”
整個城里的人像火警鼓一樣，講著同樣的話。
這個孩子到教堂里去;這個孩子受了洗禮。關于他的名字，沒有什么話可說;他叫比得。全城的人，連這個鼓兒，都叫他“鼓手的那個紅頭發的孩子比得”。不過他的母親吻著他的紅頭發，把他叫金黃的寶貝。
在那高低不平的路上，在那粘土的斜坡上，許多人刻著自己的名字，作為紀念。
“揚名是一件有意義的事情!”鼓手說。于是他把自己的名字和小兒子的名字也刻下來。
燕子飛來了;它們在長途旅行中看到更耐久的字刻在石壁上，刻在印度廟宇的墻上：強大帝王的豐功偉績，不朽的名字——它們是那么古老，現在誰也認不清，也無法把它們念出來。
真是聲名赫赫!永垂千古!
燕子在路上的洞洞里筑了窠，在斜坡上挖出一些洞口。陣雨和薄霧降下來，把那些名字洗掉了。鼓手和他小兒子的名字也被洗掉了。
“可是比得的名字卻保留住了一年半!”父親說。
“傻瓜!”那個火警鼓心中想;不過它只是說：“咚，咚，咚，隆咚咚!”
“這個鼓手的紅頭發的兒子”是一個充滿了生命和快樂的孩子。他有一個好聽的聲音;他會唱歌，而且唱得和森林里的鳥兒一樣好;他的聲音里有一種調子，但又似乎沒有調子。“他可以成為一個圣詩班的孩子!”媽媽說。“他可以站在像他一樣美的安琪兒下面，在教堂里唱歌!”
“簡直是一頭長著紅毛的貓!”城里的一些幽默人物說。鼓兒從鄰家的主婦那里聽到了這句話。
“比得，不要回到家里去吧!”街上的野孩子喊著。“如果你睡在頂樓上，屋頂一定會起火②，火警鼓也就會敲起火警。”
“請你當心鼓槌!”比得說。
雖然他的年紀很小，卻勇敢地向前撲去，用拳頭向離他最近的一個野孩子的肚皮頂了一下，這家伙站不穩，倒下來了。別的孩子們就飛快地逃掉。
城里的樂師是一個非常文雅和有名望的人，他是皇家一個管銀器的人的兒子。他非常喜歡比得，有時還把他帶到家里去，教他學習拉提琴。整個藝術仿佛是生長在這孩子的手指上。他希望做比鼓手大一點的事情——他希望成為城里的樂師。
“我想當一個兵士!”比得說。因為他還不過是一個很小的孩子;他仿佛覺得世界上最美的事情是背一桿槍開步走;
“一、二!一、二!”并且穿一套制服和掛一把劍。
“啊，你應該學會聽鼓皮的話!隆咚，咚，咚，咚!”鼓兒說。
“是的，只希望他能一步登天，升為將軍!”爸爸說。“不過，要達到這個目的，那就非得有戰爭不可!”
“愿上帝阻止吧!”媽媽說。
“我們并不會有什么損失呀!”爸爸說。
“會的，我們會損失我們的孩子!”她說。
“不過假如他回來是一個將軍!”爸爸說。
“回來會沒有手，沒有腿!”媽媽說。“不，我情愿有我完整的金黃的寶貝。”
隆咚!隆咚!隆咚!火警鼓也響起來了。戰爭起來了。兵士們都出發了，鼓手的兒子也跟他們一起出發了。“紅頭發，金黃的寶貝!”媽媽哭起來。爸爸在夢想中看到他“成名”了。
城里的樂師認為他不應該去參戰，而應該待在家里學習音樂。
“紅頭發!”兵士們喊，比得笑。不過他們有人把他叫“狐貍皮”③這時他就緊咬著牙齒，把眼睛掉向別處望——望那個廣大的世界，他不理這種譏諷的語句。
這孩子非常活潑，有勇敢的性格，有幽默感。一些比他年紀大的弟兄們說，這些特點是行軍中的最好的“水壺”。
有許多晚上他得睡在廣闊的天空下，被雨和霧打得透濕。不過他的幽默感卻并不因此而消散。鼓槌敲著：“隆咚——咚，大家起床呀!”是的，他生來就是一個鼓手。
這是一個戰斗的日子。太陽還沒有出來，不過晨曦已經出現了，空氣很冷，但是戰爭很熱。空中有一層霧，但是火藥氣比霧還重。槍彈和炮彈飛過腦袋，或穿過腦袋，穿過身體和四肢。但是大家仍然向前進。他們有的倒下來了，太陽穴流著血，面孔像粉筆一樣慘白。這個小小的鼓手仍然保持著他的健康的顏色;他沒有受一點傷;他帶著愉快的面容望著團部的那只狗兒——它在他面前跳，高興得不得了，好像一切是為了它的消遣而存在、所有的槍彈都是為了它好玩才飛來飛去似的。
沖!前進!沖!這是鼓兒所接到的命令，而這命令是不能收回的。不過人們可以后退，而且這樣做可能還是聰明的辦法呢。事實上就有人喊：“后退!”因此當我們小小的鼓手在敲著“沖!前進!”的時候，他懂得這是命令，而兵士們都是必須服從這個鼓聲的。這是很好的一陣鼓聲，也是一個走向勝利的號召，雖然兵士們已經支持不住了。
這一陣鼓聲使許多人喪失了生命和肢體。炮彈把血肉炸成碎片。炮彈把草堆也燒掉了——傷兵本來可以拖著艱難的步子到那兒躺幾個鐘頭，也許就在那兒躺一生。想這件事情有什么用呢?但是人們卻不得不想，哪怕人們住在離此地很遠的和平城市里也不得不想。那個鼓手和他的妻子在想這件事情，因為他們的兒子比得在作戰。
“我聽厭了這種牢騷!”火警鼓說。
現在又是作戰的日子。太陽還沒有升起來，但是已經是早晨了。鼓手和他的妻子正在睡覺——他們幾乎一夜沒有合上眼;他們在談論著他們的孩子，在戰場上、“在上帝手中”的孩子。父親做了一個夢，夢見戰爭已經結束，兵士們都回到家里來了，比得的胸前掛著一個銀十字勛章。不過母親夢見她到教堂里面去，看到了那些畫像，那些雕刻的、金發的安琪兒，看到了她親生的兒子——她心愛的金黃的寶貝——站在一群穿白衣服的安琪兒中間，唱著只有安琪兒才唱得出的動聽的歌;于是她跟他們一塊兒向太陽光飛去，和善地對媽媽點著頭。
“我的金黃的寶貝!”她大叫了一聲，就醒了。“我們的上帝把他接走了!”她說。于是她合著雙手，把頭藏在床上的布帷幔里，哭了起來。“他現在在什么地方安息呢?在人們為許多死者挖的那個大坑里面嗎?也許他是躺在沼澤地的水里吧!誰也不知道他的墳墓;誰也不曾在他的墳墓上念過禱告!”于是她的嘴唇就隱隱地念出主禱文④來。她垂下頭來，她是那么困倦，于是便睡過去了。
日子在日常生活中，在夢里，一天一天地過去!
這是黃昏時節;戰場上出現了一道長虹——它掛在森林和那低洼的沼澤地之間。有一個傳說在民間的信仰中流行著：凡是虹接觸到的地面，它底下一定埋藏著寶貝——金黃的寶貝。現在這兒也有一件這樣的寶貝。除了他的母親以外，誰也沒有想到這位小小的鼓手;她因此夢見了他。
日子在日常生活中，在夢里，一天一天地過去!
他頭上沒有一根頭發——一根金黃的頭發——受到損害。
“隆咚咚!隆咚咚!他來了!他來了!”鼓兒可能這樣說，媽媽如果看見他或夢見他的話，也可能這樣唱。
在歡呼和歌聲中，大家帶著勝利的綠色花圈回家了，因為戰爭已經結束，和平已經到來了。團部的那只狗在大家面前團團地跳舞，好像要把路程弄得比原來要長三倍似的。
許多日子、許多星期過去了。比得走進爸爸和媽媽的房間里來。他的膚色變成了棕色的，像一個野人一樣;眼睛發亮，面孔像太陽一樣射出光來。媽媽把他抱在懷里，吻他的嘴唇，吻他的眼睛，吻他的紅頭發。她重新獲得了她的孩子。雖然他并不像爸爸在夢中所見的那樣，胸前掛著銀質十字章，但是他的四肢完整——這正是媽媽不曾夢見過的。他們歡天喜地，他們笑，他們哭。比得擁抱著那個古老的火警鼓。
“這個老朽還在這兒沒有動!”他說。
于是父親就在它上面敲了一陣子。
“倒好像這兒發了大火呢!”火警鼓說。“屋頂上燒起了火!心里燒起了火!金黃的寶貝!燒呀!燒呀!燒呀!”
后來怎樣呢?后來怎樣呢?——請問這城里的樂師吧。
“比得已經長得比鼓還大了，”他說。“比得要比我還大了。”然而他是皇家銀器保管人的兒子啦。不過他花了一生的光陰所學到的東西，比得半年就學到了。
他具有某種勇敢、某種真正善良的品質。他的眼睛閃著光輝，他的頭發也閃著光輝——誰也不能否認這一點!
“他應該把頭發染一染才好!”鄰居一位主婦說。“警察的那位小姐這樣做過，你看她的結果多么好;她立刻就訂婚了。”
“不過她的頭發馬上就變得像青浮草一樣綠，所以她得經常染!”
“她有的是錢呀，”鄰居的主婦說。“比得也可以辦得到。他和一些有名望的家庭來往——他甚至還認識市長，教洛蒂小姐彈鋼琴呢。”
他居然能彈鋼琴!他能彈從他的心里涌出來的、最動聽的、還沒有在樂器上寫過的音樂。他在明朗的夜里彈，也在黑暗的夜里彈。鄰居們和火警鼓說：這真叫人吃不消!
他彈著，一直彈到把他的思想弄得奔騰起來，擴展成為未來的計劃：“成名!”
市長先生的洛蒂小姐坐在鋼琴旁邊。她纖細的手指在鍵子上跳躍著，在比得的心里引起一起回聲。這超過他心里所有的容量。這種情形不只發生過一次，而是發生過許多次!最后有一天他捉住那只漂亮的手的纖細的手指吻了一下，并且朝她那對棕色的大眼睛盯著望。只有上帝知道他要說什么話。不過我們可以猜猜。洛蒂小姐的臉紅起來，一直紅到脖子和肩上，她一句話也不回答。隨后有些不認識的客人到她房間里來，其中之一是政府高級顧問官的少爺，他有高闊的、光亮的前額，而且他把頭抬得那樣高，幾乎要仰到頸后去了。比得跟他們一起坐了很久;她用最溫柔的眼睛望著他。
那天晚上他在家里談起廣闊的世界，談起在他的提琴里藏著的金黃的寶貝。
成名!
“隆咚，隆咚，隆咚!”火警鼓說。“比得完全失去了理智。我想這屋子一定要起火。”
第二天媽媽到市場上去。
“比得，我告訴你一個消息!”她回到家里來的時候說。
“一個好消息。市長先生的洛蒂小姐跟高級顧問官的少爺訂婚了。這是昨天的事情。”
“我不信!”比得大聲說，同時從椅子上跳起來，不過媽媽堅持說：是真的。她是從理發師的太太那兒聽來的，而理發師是聽見市長親口說的。
比得變得像死尸一樣慘白，并且坐了下來。
“我的天老爺!你這是為什么?”媽媽問。
“好，好，請你不要管我吧!”他說，眼淚沿著他的臉上流下來。
“我親愛的孩子，我的金黃的寶貝!”媽媽說，同時哭泣來。不過火警鼓兒唱著——沒有唱出聲音，是在心里唱。
“洛蒂死了!洛蒂死了!”現在一支歌也完了!
歌并沒有完。它里面還有許多詞兒，許多很長的詞兒，許多最美麗的詞兒——生命中的金黃的寶貝。
“她簡直像一個瘋子一樣!”鄰居的主婦說。“大家要來看她從她的金黃的寶貝那兒來的信，要來讀報紙上關于他和他的提琴的記載。他還寄錢給她——她很需要，因為她現在是一個寡婦。”
“他為皇帝和國王演奏!”城里的樂師說。“我從來沒有過這樣的幸運。不過他是我的學生;他不會忘記他的老師的。”
“爸爸做過這樣的夢”，媽媽說;“他夢見比得從戰場上戴著銀十字章回來。他在戰爭中沒有得到它;這比在戰場上更難。他現在得到了榮譽十字勛章。要是爸爸仍然活著看到它多好!”
“成名了!”火警鼓說。城里的人也這樣說，因為那個鼓手的紅頭發的兒子比得——他們親眼看到他小時拖著一雙木鞋跑來跑去、后來又作為一個鼓手而為跳舞的人奏樂的比得——現在成名了!
“在他沒有為國王拉琴之前，他就已經為我們拉過了!”市長太太說。“那個時候他非常喜歡洛蒂。他一直是很有抱負的。那時他是既大膽，又荒唐!我的丈夫聽到這件傻事的時候，曾經大笑過!現在我們洛蒂是一個高級顧問官的夫人了!”
在這個窮家孩子的心靈里藏著一個金黃的寶貝——他，作為一個小小的鼓手，曾經敲起：“沖!前進!”對于那些幾乎要撤退的人說來，這是一陣勝利的鼓聲。他的胸懷中有一個金黃的寶貝——聲音的力量。這種力量在他的提琴上爆發，好像它里面有一個完整的風琴，她像仲夏夜的小妖精就在它的弦上跳舞似的。人們在它里面聽出畫眉的歌聲和人類的清亮聲音。因此它使得每一顆心狂喜，使得他的名字在整個國家里馳名。這是一個偉大的火炬——一個熱情的火炬。
“他真是可愛極了!”少婦們說，老太太們也這樣說。她們之中一位最老的婦人弄到了一本收藏名人頭發的紀念簿，其目的完全是為了要向這位年輕的提琴家求得一小綹濃密而美麗的頭發——那個寶貝，那個金黃的寶貝。
兒子回到鼓手的那個簡陋的房間里來了，漂亮得像一位王子，快樂得像一個國王。他的眼睛是明亮的，他的面孔像太陽。他雙手抱著他的母親。她吻著他溫暖的嘴，哭得像任何人在快樂中哭泣一樣。他對房間里的每件舊家具點點頭，對裝茶碗和花瓶的碗柜也點點頭。他對那張睡椅點點頭——他小時曾在那上面睡過。不過他把那個古老的火警鼓拖到屋子的中央，對火警鼓和媽媽說：
“在今天這樣的場合，爸爸可能會敲一陣子的!現在得由我來敲了!”
于是他就在鼓上敲起一陣雷吼一般的鼓聲。鼓兒感到那么榮幸，連它上面的羊皮都高興得裂開了。
“他真是一個擊鼓的神手!”鼓兒說。“我將永遠不會忘記他。我想，他的母親也會由于這寶貝而高興得笑破了肚皮。”
這就是那個金黃的寶貝的故事。
①據丹麥的民間傳說，小孩子是由鸛鳥送到世界上來的。請參看安徒生童話《鸛鳥》。
�、谶@是作者開的一個文學玩笑;這孩子的頭發是那么紅，看起來像火在燒。
③有一種狐貍的毛是紅色的。這兒“狐貍皮”影射“紅頭發”。
④主禱文是基督教徒禱告上帝時念的一段話。見《圣經·新約全書·馬太福音》第六章第九至十三節。
金黃的寶貝英文版：
The Golden Treasure
THE drummer’s wife went into the church. She saw the new altar with the painted pictures and the carved angels. Those upon the canvas and in the glory over the altar were just as beautiful as the carved ones; and they were painted and gilt into the bargain. Their hair gleamed golden in the sunshine, lovely to behold; but the real sunshine was more beautiful still. It shone redder, clearer through the dark trees, when the sun went down. It was lovely thus to look at the sunshine of heaven. And she looked at the red sun, and she thought about it so deeply, and thought of the little one whom the stork was to bring, and the wife of the drummer was very cheerful, and looked and looked, and wished that the child might have a gleam of sunshine given to it, so that it might at least become like one of the shining angels over the altar.
And when she really had the little child in her arms, and held it up to its father, then it was like one of the angels in the church to behold, with hair like gold—the gleam of the setting sun was upon it.
“My golden treasure, my riches, my sunshine!” said the mother; and she kissed the shining locks, and it sounded like music and song in the room of the drummer; and there was joy, and life, and movement. The drummer beat a roll—a roll of joy. And the Drum said—the Fire-drum, that was beaten when there was a fire in the town:
“Red hair! the little fellow has red hair! Believe the drum, and not what your mother says! Rub-a dub, rub-a dub!”
And the town repeated what the Fire-drum had said.
The boy was taken to church, the boy was christened. There was nothing much to be said about his name; he was called Peter. The whole town, and the Drum too, called him Peter the drummer’s boy with the red hair; but his mother kissed his red hair, and called him her golden treasure.
In the hollow way in the clayey bank, many had scratched their names as a remembrance.
“Celebrity is always something!” said the drummer; and so he scratched his own name there, and his little son’s name likewise.
And the swallows came. They had, on their long journey, seen more durable characters engraven on rocks, and on the walls of the temples in Hindostan, mighty deeds of great kings, immortal names, so old that no one now could read or speak them. Remarkable celebrity!
In the clayey bank the martens built their nest. They bored holes in the deep declivity, and the splashing rain and the thin mist came and crumbled and washed the names away, and the drummer’s name also, and that of his little son.
“Peter’s name will last a full year and a half longer!” said the father.
“Fool!” thought the Fire-drum; but it only said, “Dub, dub, dub, rub-a-dub!”
He was a boy full of life and gladness, this drummer’s son with the red hair. He had a lovely voice. He could sing, and he sang like a bird in the woodland. There was melody, and yet no melody.
“He must become a chorister boy,” said his mother. “He shall sing in the church, and stand among the beautiful gilded angels who are like him!”
“Fiery cat!” said some of the witty ones of the town.
The Drum heard that from the neighbors’ wives.
“Don’t go home, Peter,” cried the street boys. “If you sleep in the garret, there’ll be a fire in the house, and the fire-drum will have to be beaten.”
“Look out for the drumsticks,” replied Peter; and, small as he was, he ran up boldly, and gave the foremost such a punch in the body with his fist, that the fellow lost his legs and tumbled over, and the others took their legs off with themselves very rapidly.
The town musician was very genteel and fine. He was the son of the royal plate-washer. He was very fond of Peter, and would sometimes take him to his home; and he gave him a violin, and taught him to play it. It seemed as if the whole art lay in the boy’s fingers; and he wanted to be more than a drummer—he wanted to become musician to the town.
“I’ll be a soldier,” said Peter; for he was still quite a little lad, and it seemed to him the finest thing in the world to carry a gun, and to be able to march one, two—one, two, and to wear a uniform and a sword.
“Ah, you learn to long for the drum-skin, drum, dum, dum!” said the Drum.
“Yes, if he could only march his way up to be a general!” observed his father; “but before he can do that, there must be war.”
“Heaven forbid!” said his mother.
“We have nothing to lose,” remarked the father.
“Yes, we have my boy,” she retorted.
“But suppose he came back a general!” said the father.
“Without arms and legs!” cried the mother. “No, I would rather keep my golden treasure with me.”
“Drum, dum, dum!” The Fire-drum and all the other drums were beating, for war had come. The soldiers all set out, and the son of the drummer followed them. “Red-head. Golden treasure!”
The mother wept; the father in fancy saw him “famous;” the town musician was of opinion that he ought not to go to war, but should stay at home and learn music.
“Red-head,” said the soldiers, and little Peter laughed; but when one of them sometimes said to another, “Foxey,” he would bite his teeth together and look another way—into the wide world. He did not care for the nickname.
The boy was active, pleasant of speech, and good-humored; that is the best canteen, said his old comrades.
And many a night he had to sleep under the open sky, wet through with the driving rain or the falling mist; but his good humor never forsook him. The drum-sticks sounded, “Rub-a-dub, all up, all up!” Yes, he was certainly born to be a drummer.
The day of battle dawned. The sun had not yet risen, but the morning was come. The air was cold, the battle was hot; there was mist in the air, but still more gunpowder-smoke. The bullets and shells flew over the soldiers’ heads, and into their heads—into their bodies and limbs; but still they pressed forward. Here or there one or other of them would sink on his knees, with bleeding temples and a face as white as chalk. The little drummer still kept his healthy color; he had suffered no damage; he looked cheerfully at the dog of the regiment, which was jumping along as merrily as if the whole thing had been got up for his amusement, and as if the bullets were only flying about that he might have a game of play with them.
“March! Forward! March!” This, was the word of command for the drum. The word had not yet been given to fall back, though they might have done so, and perhaps there would have been much sense in it; and now at last the word “Retire” was given; but our little drummer beat “Forward! march!” for he had understood the command thus, and the soldiers obeyed the sound of the drum. That was a good roll, and proved the summons to victory for the men, who had already begun to give way.
Life and limb were lost in the battle. Bombshells tore away the flesh in red strips; bombshells lit up into a terrible glow the strawheaps to which the wounded had dragged themselves, to lie untended for many hours, perhaps for all the hours they had to live.
It’s no use thinking of it; and yet one cannot help thinking of it, even far away in the peaceful town. The drummer and his wife also thought of it, for Peter was at the war.
“Now, I’m tired of these complaints,” said the Fire-drum.
Again the day of battle dawned; the sun had not yet risen, but it was morning. The drummer and his wife were asleep. They had been talking about their son, as, indeed, they did almost every night, for he was out yonder in God’s hand. And the father dreamt that the war was over, that the soldiers had returned home, and that Peter wore a silver cross on his breast. But the mother dreamt that she had gone into the church, and had seen the painted pictures and the carved angels with the gilded hair, and her own dear boy, the golden treasure of her heart, who was standing among the angels in white robes, singing so sweetly, as surely only the angels can sing; and that he had soared up with them into the sunshine, and nodded so kindly at his mother.
“My golden treasure!” she cried out; and she awoke. “Now the good God has taken him to Himself!” She folded her hands, and hid her face in the cotton curtains of the bed, and wept. “Where does he rest now? among the many in the big grave that they have dug for the dead? Perhaps he’s in the water in the marsh! Nobody knows his grave; no holy words have been read over it!” And the Lord’s Prayer went inaudibly over her lips; she bowed her head, and was so weary that she went to sleep.
And the days went by, in life as in dreams!
It was evening. Over the battle-field a rainbow spread, which touched the forest and the deep marsh.
It has been said, and is preserved in popular belief, that where the rainbow touches the earth a treasure lies buried, a golden treasure; and here there was one. No one but his mother thought of the little drummer, and therefore she dreamt of him.
And the days went by, in life as in dreams!
Not a hair of his head had been hurt, not a golden hair.
“Drum-ma-rum! drum-ma-rum! there he is!” the Drum might have said, and his mother might have sung, if she had seen or dreamt it.
With hurrah and song, adorned with green wreaths of victory, they came home, as the war was at an end, and peace had been signed. The dog of the regiment sprang on in front with large bounds, and made the way three times as long for himself as it really was.
And days and weeks went by, and Peter came into his parents’ room. He was as brown as a wild man, and his eyes were bright, and his face beamed like sunshine. And his mother held him in her arms; she kissed his lips, his forehead, and his red hair. She had her boy back again; he had not a silver cross on his breast, as his father had dreamt, but he had sound limbs, a thing the mother had not dreamt. And what a rejoicing was there! They laughed and they wept; and Peter embraced the old Fire-drum.
“There stands the old skeleton still!” he said.
And the father beat a roll upon it.
“One would think that a great fire had broken out here,” said the Fire-drum. “Bright day! fire in the heart! golden treasure! skrat! skr-r-at! skr-r-r-r-at!”
And what then? What then!—Ask the town musician.
“Peter’s far outgrowing the drum,” he said. “Peter will be greater than I.”
And yet he was the son of a royal plate-washer; but all that he had learned in half a lifetime, Peter learned in half a year.
There was something so merry about him, something so truly kind-hearted. His eyes gleamed, and his hair gleamed too—there was no denying that!
“He ought to have his hair dyed,” said the neighbor’s wife. “That answered capitally with the policeman’s daughter, and she got a husband.”
“But her hair turned as green as duckweed, and was always having to be colored up.”
“She knows how to manage for herself,” said the neighbors, “and so can Peter. He comes to the most genteel houses, even to the burgomaster’s where he gives Miss Charlotte piano-forte lessons.”
He could play! He could play, fresh out of his heart, the most charming pieces, that had never been put upon music-paper. He played in the bright nights, and in the dark nights, too. The neighbors declared it was unbearable, and the Fire-drum was of the same opinion.
He played until his thoughts soared up, and burst forth in great plans for the future:
“To be famous!”
And burgomaster’s Charlotte sat at the piano. Her delicate fingers danced over the keys, and made them ring into Peter’s heart. It seemed too much for him to bear; and this happened not once, but many times; and at last one day he seized the delicate fingers and the white hand, and kissed it, and looked into her great brown eyes. Heaven knows what he said; but we may be allowed to guess at it. Charlotte blushed to guess at it. She reddened from brow to neck, and answered not a single word; and then strangers came into the room, and one of them was the state councillor’s son. He had a lofty white forehead, and carried it so high that it seemed to go back into his neck. And Peter sat by her a long time, and she looked at him with gentle eyes.
At home that evening he spoke of travel in the wide world, and of the golden treasure that lay hidden for him in his violin.
“To be famous!”
“Tum-me-lum, tum-me-lum, tum-me-lum!” said the Fire-drum. “Peter has gone clear out of his wits. I think there must be a fire in the house.”
Next day the mother went to market.
“Shall I tell you news, Peter?” she asked when she came home. “A capital piece of news. Burgomaster’s Charlotte has engaged herself to the state councillor’s son; the betrothal took place yesterday evening.”
“No!” cried Peter, and he sprang up from his chair. But his mother persisted in saying “Yes.” She had heard it from the baker’s wife, whose husband had it from the burgomaster’s own mouth
And Peter became as pale as death, and sat down again.
“Good Heaven! what’s the matter with you?” asked his mother.
“Nothing, nothing; only leave me to myself,” he answered but the tears were running down his cheeks.
“My sweet child, my golden treasure!” cried the mother, and she wept; but the Fire-drum sang, not out loud, but inwardly.
“Charlotte’s gone! Charlotte’s gone! and now the song is done.”
But the song was not done; there were many more verses in it, long verses, the most beautiful verses, the golden treasures of a life.
“She behaves like a mad woman,” said the neighbor’s wife. “All the world is to see the letters she gets from her golden treasure, and to read the words that are written in the papers about his violin playing. And he sends her money too, and that’s very useful to her since she has been a widow.”
“He plays before emperors and kings,” said the town musician. “I never had that fortune, but he’s my pupil, and he does not forget his old master.”
And his mother said,
“His father dreamt that Peter came home from the war with a silver cross. He did not gain one in the war, but it is still more difficult to gain one in this way. Now he has the cross of honor. If his father had only lived to see it!”
“He’s grown famous!” said the Fire-drum, and all his native town said the same thing, for the drummer’s son, Peter with the red hair— Peter whom they had known as a little boy, running about in wooden shoes, and then as a drummer, playing for the dancers—was become famous!
“He played at our house before he played in the presence of kings,” said the burgomaster’s wife. “At that time he was quite smitten with Charlotte. He was always of an aspiring turn. At that time he was saucy and an enthusiast. My husband laughed when he heard of the foolish affair, and now our Charlotte is a state councillor’s wife.”
A golden treasure had been hidden in the heart and soul of the poor child, who had beaten the roll as a drummer—a roll of victory for those who had been ready to retreat. There was a golden treasure in his bosom, the power of sound; it burst forth on his violin as if the instrument had been a complete organ, and as if all the elves of a midsummer night were dancing across the strings. In its sounds were heard the piping of the thrush and the full clear note of the human voice; therefore the sound brought rapture to every heart, and carried his name triumphant through the land. That was a great firebrand—the firebrand of inspiration.
“And then he looks so splendid!” said the young ladies and the old ladies too; and the oldest of all procured an album for famous locks of hair, wholly and solely that she might beg a lock of his rich splendid hair, that treasure, that golden treasure.
And the son came into the poor room of the drummer, elegant as a prince, happier than a king. His eyes were as clear and his face was as radiant as sunshine; and he held his mother in his arms, and she kissed his mouth, and wept as blissfully as any one can weep for joy; and he nodded at every old piece of furniture in the room, at the cupboard with the tea-cups, and at the flower-vase. He nodded at the sleeping-bench, where he had slept as a little boy; but the old Fire-drum he brought out, and dragged it into the middle of the room, and said to it and to his mother:
“My father would have beaten a famous roll this evening. Now I must do it!”
And he beat a thundering roll-call on the instrument, and the Drum felt so highly honored that the parchment burst with exultation.
“He has a splendid touch!” said the Drum. “I’ve a remembrance of him now that will last. I expect that the same thing will happen to his mother, from pure joy over her golden treasure.”
And this is the story of the Golden Treasure.
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