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安徒生童话 OLE THE TOWER-KEEPER

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  ANNE LISBETH was a beautiful young woman, with a red and

  white complexion, glittering white teeth, and clear soft eyes;

  and her footstep was light in the dance, but her mind was

  lighter still. She had a little child, not at all pretty; so

  he was put out to be nursed by a laborer's wife, and his

  mother went to the count's castle. She sat in splendid rooms,

  richly decorated with silk and velvet; not a breath of air was

  allowed to blow upon her, and no one was allowed to speak to

  her harshly, for she was nurse to the count's child. He was

  fair and delicate as a prince, and beautiful as an angel; and

  how she loved this child! Her own boy was provided for by

  being at the laborer's where the mouth watered more frequently

  than the pot boiled, and where in general no one was at home

  to take care of the child. Then he would cry, but what nobody

  knows nobody cares for; so he would cry till he was tired, and

  then fall asleep; and while we are asleep we can feel neither

  hunger nor thirst. Ah, yes; sleep is a capital invention.

  As years went on, Anne Lisbeth's child grew apace like

  weeds, although they said his growth had been stunted. He had

  become quite a member of the family in which he dwelt; they

  received money to keep him, so that his mother got rid of him

  altogether. She had become quite a lady; she had a comfortable

  home of her own in the town; and out of doors, when she went

  for a walk, she wore a bonnet; but she never walked out to see

  the laborer: that was too far from the town, and, indeed, she

  had nothing to go for, the boy now belonged to these laboring

  people. He had food, and he could also do something towards

  earning his living; he took care of Mary's red cow, for he

  knew how to tend cattle and make himself useful.

  The great dog by the yard gate of a nobleman's mansion

  sits proudly on the top of his kennel when the sun shines, and

  barks at every one that passes; but if it rains, he creeps

  into his house, and there he is warm and dry. Anne Lisbeth's

  boy also sat in the sunshine on the top of the fence, cutting

  out a little toy. If it was spring-time, he knew of three

  strawberry-plants in blossom, which would certainly bear

  fruit. This was his most hopeful thought, though it often came

  to nothing. And he had to sit out in the rain in the worst

  weather, and get wet to the skin, and let the cold wind dry

  the clothes on his back afterwards. If he went near the

  farmyard belonging to the count, he was pushed and knocked

  about, for the men and the maids said he was so horrible ugly;

  but he was used to all this, for nobody loved him. This was

  how the world treated Anne Lisbeth's boy, and how could it be

  otherwise. It was his fate to be beloved by no one. Hitherto

  he had been a land crab; the land at last cast him adrift. He

  went to sea in a wretched vessel, and sat at the helm, while

  the skipper sat over the grog-can. He was dirty and ugly,

  half-frozen and half-starved; he always looked as if he never

  had enough to eat, which was really the case.

  Late in the autumn, when the weather was rough, windy, and

  wet, and the cold penetrated through the thickest clothing,

  especially at sea, a wretched boat went out to sea with only

  two men on board, or, more correctly, a man and a half, for it

  was the skipper and his boy. There had only been a kind of

  twilight all day, and it soon grew quite dark, and so bitterly

  cold, that the skipper took a dram to warm him. The bottle was

  old, and the glass too. It was perfect in the upper part, but

  the foot was broken off, and it had therefore been fixed upon

  a little carved block of wood, painted blue. A dram is a great

  comfort, and two are better still, thought the skipper, while

  the boy sat at the helm, which he held fast in his hard seamed

  hands. He was ugly, and his hair was matted, and he looked

  crippled and stunted; they called him the field-laborer's boy,

  though in the church register he was entered as Anne Lisbeth's

  son. The wind cut through the rigging, and the boat cut

  through the sea. The sails, filled by the wind, swelled out

  and carried them along in wild career. It was wet and rough

  above and below, and might still be worse. Hold! what is that?

  What has struck the boat? Was it a waterspout, or a heavy sea

  rolling suddenly upon them?

  "Heaven help us!" cried the boy at the helm, as the boat

  heeled over and lay on its beam ends. It had struck on a rock,

  which rose from the depths of the sea, and sank at once, like

  an old shoe in a puddle. "It sank at once with mouse and man,"

  as the saying is. There might have been mice on board, but

  only one man and a half, the skipper and the laborer's boy. No

  one saw it but the skimming sea-gulls and the fishes beneath

  the water; and even they did not see it properly, for they

  darted back with terror as the boat filled with water and

  sank. There it lay, scarcely a fathom below the surface, and

  those two were provided for, buried, and forgotten. The glass

  with the foot of blue wood was the only thing that did not

  sink, for the wood floated and the glass drifted away to be

  cast upon the shore and broken; where and when, is indeed of

  no consequence. It had served its purpose, and it had been

  loved, which Anne Lisbeth's boy had not been. But in heaven no

  soul will be able to say, "Never loved."

  Anne Lisbeth had now lived in the town many years; she was

  called "Madame," and felt dignified in consequence; she

  remembered the old, noble days, in which she had driven in the

  carriage, and had associated with countess and baroness. Her

  beautiful, noble child had been a dear angel, and possessed

  the kindest heart; he had loved her so much, and she had loved

  him in return; they had kissed and loved each other, and the

  boy had been her joy, her second life. Now he was fourteen

  years of age, tall, handsome, and clever. She had not seen him

  since she carried him in her arms; neither had she been for

  years to the count's palace; it was quite a journey thither

  from the town.

  "I must make one effort to go," said Anne Lisbeth, "to see

  my darling, the count's sweet child, and press him to my

  heart. Certainly he must long to see me, too, the young count;

  no doubt he thinks of me and loves me, as in those days when

  he would fling his angel-arms round my neck, and lisp 'Anne

  Liz.' It was music to my ears. Yes, I must make an effort to

  see him again." She drove across the country in a grazier's

  cart, and then got out, and continued her journey on foot, and

  thus reached the count's castle. It was as great and

  magnificent as it had always been, and the garden looked the

  same as ever; all the servants were strangers to her, not one

  of them knew Anne Lisbeth, nor of what consequence she had

  once been there; but she felt sure the countess would soon let

  them know it, and her darling boy, too: how she longed to see

  him!

  Now that Anne Lisbeth was at her journey's end, she was

  kept waiting a long time; and for those who wait, time passes

  slowly. But before the great people went in to dinner, she was

  called in and spoken to very graciously. She was to go in

  again after dinner, and then she would see her sweet boy once

  more. How tall, and slender, and thin he had grown; but the

  eyes and the sweet angel mouth were still beautiful. He looked

  at her, but he did not speak, he certainly did not know who

  she was. He turned round and was going away, but she seized

  his hand and pressed it to her lips.

  "Well, well," he said; and with that he walked out of the

  room. He who filled her every thought! he whom she loved best,

  and who was her whole earthly pride!

  Anne Lisbeth went forth from the castle into the public

  road, feeling mournful and sad; he whom she had nursed day and

  night, and even now carried about in her dreams, had been cold

  and strange, and had not a word or thought respecting her. A

  great black raven darted down in front of her on the high

  road, and croaked dismally.

  "Ah," said she, "what bird of ill omen art thou?"

  Presently she passed the laborer's hut; his wife stood at the

  door, and the two women spoke to each other.

  "You look well," said the woman; "you're fat and plump;

  you are well off."

  "Oh yes," answered Anne Lisbeth.

  "The boat went down with them," continued the woman; "Hans

  the skipper and the boy were both drowned; so there's an end

  of them. I always thought the boy would be able to help me

  with a few dollars. He'll never cost you anything more, Anne

  Lisbeth."

  "So they were drowned," repeated Anne Lisbeth; but she

  said no more, and the subject was dropped. She felt very

  low-spirited, because her count-child had shown no inclination

  to speak to her who loved him so well, and who had travelled

  so far to see him. The journey had cost money too, and she had

  derived no great pleasure from it. Still she said not a word

  of all this; she could not relieve her heart by telling the

  laborer's wife, lest the latter should think she did not enjoy

  her former position at the castle. Then the raven flew over

  her, screaming again as he flew.

  "The black wretch!" said Anne Lisbeth, "he will end by

  frightening me today." She had brought coffee and chicory with

  her, for she thought it would be a charity to the poor woman

  to give them to her to boil a cup of coffee, and then she

  would take a cup herself.

  The woman prepared the coffee, and in the meantime Anne

  Lisbeth seated her in a chair and fell asleep. Then she

  dreamed of something which she had never dreamed before;

  singularly enough she dreamed of her own child, who had wept

  and hungered in the laborer's hut, and had been knocked about

  in heat and in cold, and who was now lying in the depths of

  the sea, in a spot only known by God. She fancied she was

  still sitting in the hut, where the woman was busy preparing

  the coffee, for she could smell the coffee-berries roasting.

  But suddenly it seemed to her that there stood on the

  threshold a beautiful young form, as beautiful as the count's

  child, and this apparition said to her, "The world is passing

  away; hold fast to me, for you are my mother after all; you

  have an angel in heaven, hold me fast;" and the child-angel

  stretched out his hand and seized her. Then there was a

  terrible crash, as of a world crumbling to pieces, and the

  angel-child was rising from the earth, and holding her by the

  sleeve so tightly that she felt herself lifted from the

  ground; but, on the other hand, something heavy hung to her

  feet and dragged her down, and it seemed as if hundreds of

  women were clinging to her, and crying, "If thou art to be

  saved, we must be saved too. Hold fast, hold fast." And then

  they all hung on her, but there were too many; and as they

  clung the sleeve was torn, and Anne Lisbeth fell down in

  horror, and awoke. Indeed she was on the point of falling over

  in reality with the chair on which she sat; but she was so

  startled and alarmed that she could not remember what she had

  dreamed, only that it was something very dreadful.

  They drank their coffee and had a chat together, and then

  Anne Lisbeth went away towards the little town where she was

  to meet the carrier, who was to drive her back to her own

  home. But when she came to him she found that he would not be

  ready to start till the evening of the next day. Then she

  began to think of the expense, and what the distance would be

  to walk. She remembered that the route by the sea-shore was

  two miles shorter than by the high road; and as the weather

  was clear, and there would be moonlight, she determined to

  make her way on foot, and to start at once, that she might

  reach home the next day.

  The sun had set, and the evening bells sounded through the

  air from the tower of the village church, but to her it was

  not the bells, but the cry of the frogs in the marshes. Then

  they ceased, and all around became still; not a bird could be

  heard, they were all at rest, even the owl had not left her

  hiding place; deep silence reigned on the margin of the wood

  by the sea-shore. As Anne Lisbeth walked on she could hear her

  own footsteps in the sands; even the waves of the sea were at

  rest, and all in the deep waters had sunk into silence. There

  was quiet among the dead and the living in the deep sea. Anne

  Lisbeth walked on, thinking of nothing at all, as people say,

  or rather her thoughts wandered, but not away from her, for

  thought is never absent from us, it only slumbers. Many

  thoughts that have lain dormant are roused at the proper time,

  and begin to stir in the mind and the heart, and seem even to

  come upon us from above. It is written, that a good deed bears

  a blessing for its fruit; and it is also written, that the

  wages of sin is death. Much has been said and much written

  which we pass over or know nothing of. A light arises within

  us, and then forgotten things make themselves remembered; and

  thus it was with Anne Lisbeth. The germ of every vice and

  every virtue lies in our heart, in yours and in mine; they lie

  like little grains of seed, till a ray of sunshine, or the

  touch of an evil hand, or you turn the corner to the right or

  to the left, and the decision is made. The little seed is

  stirred, it swells and shoots up, and pours its sap into your

  blood, directing your course either for good or evil.

  Troublesome thoughts often exist in the mind, fermenting

  there, which are not realized by us while the senses are as it

  were slumbering; but still they are there. Anne Lisbeth walked

  on thus with her senses half asleep, but the thoughts were

  fermenting within her.

  From one Shrove Tuesday to another, much may occur to

  weigh down the heart; it is the reckoning of a whole year;

  much may be forgotten, sins against heaven in word and

  thought, sins against our neighbor, and against our own

  conscience. We are scarcely aware of their existence; and Anne

  Lisbeth did not think of any of her errors. She had committed

  no crime against the law of the land; she was an honorable

  person, in a good position- that she knew.

  She continued her walk along by the margin of the sea.

  What was it she saw lying there? An old hat; a man's hat. Now

  when might that have been washed overboard? She drew nearer,

  she stopped to look at the hat; "Ha! what was lying yonder?"

  She shuddered; yet it was nothing save a heap of grass and

  tangled seaweed flung across a long stone, but it looked like

  a corpse. Only tangled grass, and yet she was frightened at

  it. As she turned to walk away, much came into her mind that

  she had heard in her childhood: old superstitions of spectres

  by the sea-shore; of the ghosts of drowned but unburied

  people, whose corpses had been washed up on the desolate

  beach. The body, she knew, could do no harm to any one, but

  the spirit could pursue the lonely wanderer, attach itself to

  him, and demand to be carried to the churchyard, that it might

  rest in consecrated ground. "Hold fast! hold fast!" the

  spectre would cry; and as Anne Lisbeth murmured these words to

  herself, the whole of her dream was suddenly recalled to her

  memory, when the mother had clung to her, and uttered these

  words, when, amid the crashing of worlds, her sleeve had been

  torn, and she had slipped from the grasp of her child, who

  wanted to hold her up in that terrible hour. Her child, her

  own child, which she had never loved, lay now buried in the

  sea, and might rise up, like a spectre, from the waters, and

  cry, "Hold fast; carry me to consecrated ground!"

  As these thoughts passed through her mind, fear gave speed

  to her feet, so that she walked faster and faster. Fear came

  upon her as if a cold, clammy hand had been laid upon her

  heart, so that she almost fainted. As she looked across the

  sea, all there grew darker; a heavy mist came rolling onwards,

  and clung to bush and tree, distorting them into fantastic

  shapes. She turned and glanced at the moon, which had risen

  behind her. It looked like a pale, rayless surface, and a

  deadly weight seemed to hang upon her limbs. "Hold," thought

  she; and then she turned round a second time to look at the

  moon. A white face appeared quite close to her, with a mist,

  hanging like a garment from its shoulders. "Stop! carry me to

  consecrated earth," sounded in her ears, in strange, hollow

  tones. The sound did not come from frogs or ravens; she saw no

  sign of such creatures. "A grave! dig me a grave!" was

  repeated quite loud. Yes, it was indeed the spectre of her

  child. The child that lay beneath the ocean, and whose spirit

  could have no rest until it was carried to the churchyard, and

  until a grave had been dug for it in consecrated ground. She

  would go there at once, and there she would dig. She turned in

  the direction of the church, and the weight on her heart

  seemed to grow lighter, and even to vanish altogether; but

  when she turned to go home by the shortest way, it returned.

  "Stop! stop!" and the words came quite clear, though they were

  like the croak of a frog, or the wail of a bird. "A grave! dig

  me a grave!"

  The mist was cold and damp, her hands and face were moist

  and clammy with horror, a heavy weight again seized her and

  clung to her, her mind became clear for thoughts that had

  never before been there.

  In these northern regions, a beech-wood often buds in a

  single night and appears in the morning sunlight in its full

  glory of youthful green. So, in a single instant, can the

  consciousness of the sin that has been committed in thoughts,

  words, and actions of our past life, be unfolded to us. When

  once the conscience is awakened, it springs up in the heart

  spontaneously, and God awakens the conscience when we least

  expect it. Then we can find no excuse for ourselves; the deed

  is there and bears witness against us. The thoughts seem to

  become words, and to sound far out into the world. We are

  horrified at the thought of what we have carried within us,

  and at the consciousness that we have not overcome the evil

  which has its origin in thoughtlessness and pride. The heart

  conceals within itself the vices as well as the virtues, and

  they grow in the shallowest ground. Anne Lisbeth now

  experienced in thought what we have clothed in words. She was

  overpowered by them, and sank down and crept along for some

  distance on the ground. "A grave! dig me a grave!" sounded

  again in her ears, and she would have gladly buried herself,

  if in the grave she could have found forgetfulness of her

  actions.

  It was the first hour of her awakening, full of anguish

  and horror. Superstition made her alternately shudder with

  cold or burn with the heat of fever. Many things, of which she

  had feared even to speak, came into her mind. Silently, as the

  cloud-shadows in the moonshine, a spectral apparition flitted

  by her; she had heard of it before. Close by her galloped four

  snorting steeds, with fire flashing from their eyes and

  nostrils. They dragged a burning coach, and within it sat the

  wicked lord of the manor, who had ruled there a hundred years

  before. The legend says that every night, at twelve o'clock,

  he drove into his castleyard and out again. He was not as pale

  as dead men are, but black as a coal. He nodded, and pointed

  to Anne Lisbeth, crying out, "Hold fast! hold fast! and then

  you may ride again in a nobleman's carriage, and forget your

  child."

  She gathered herself up, and hastened to the churchyard;

  but black crosses and black ravens danced before her eyes, and

  she could not distinguish one from the other. The ravens

  croaked as the raven had done which she saw in the daytime,

  but now she understood what they said. "I am the raven-mother;

  I am the raven-mother," each raven croaked, and Anne Lisbeth

  felt that the name also applied to her; and she fancied she

  should be transformed into a black bird, and have to cry as

  they cried, if she did not dig the grave. And she threw

  herself upon the earth, and with her hands dug a grave in the

  hard ground, so that the blood ran from her fingers. "A grave!

  dig me a grave!" still sounded in her ears; she was fearful

  that the cock might crow, and the first red streak appear in

  the east, before she had finished her work; and then she would

  be lost. And the cock crowed, and the day dawned in the east,

  and the grave was only half dug. An icy hand passed over her

  head and face, and down towards her heart. "Only half a

  grave," a voice wailed, and fled away. Yes, it fled away over

  the sea; it was the ocean spectre; and, exhausted and

  overpowered, Anne Lisbeth sunk to the ground, and her senses

  left her.

  It was a bright day when she came to herself, and two men

  were raising her up; but she was not lying in the churchyard,

  but on the sea-shore, where she had dug a deep hole in the

  sand, and cut her hand with a piece of broken glass, whose

  sharp stern was stuck in a little block of painted wood. Anne

  Lisbeth was in a fever. Conscience had roused the memories of

  superstitions, and had so acted upon her mind, that she

  fancied she had only half a soul, and that her child had taken

  the other half down into the sea. Never would she be able to

  cling to the mercy of Heaven till she had recovered this other

  half which was now held fast in the deep water.

  Anne Lisbeth returned to her home, but she was no longer

  the woman she had been. Her thoughts were like a confused,

  tangled skein; only one thread, only one thought was clear to

  her, namely that she must carry the spectre of the sea-shore

  to the churchyard, and dig a grave for him there; that by so

  doing she might win back her soul. Many a night she was missed

  from her home, and was always found on the sea-shore waiting

  for the spectre.

  In this way a whole year passed; and then one night she

  vanished again, and was not to be found. The whole of the next

  day was spent in a useless search after her.

  Towards evening, when the clerk entered the church to toll

  the vesper bell, he saw by the altar Anne Lisbeth, who had

  spent the whole day there. Her powers of body were almost

  exhausted, but her eyes flashed brightly, and on her cheeks

  was a rosy flush. The last rays of the setting sun shone upon

  her, and gleamed over the altar upon the shining clasps of the

  Bible, which lay open at the words of the prophet Joel, "Rend

  your hearts and not your garments, and turn unto the Lord."

  "That was just a chance," people said; but do things

  happen by chance? In the face of Anne Lisbeth, lighted up by

  the evening sun, could be seen peace and rest. She said she

  was happy now, for she had conquered. The spectre of the

  shore, her own child, had come to her the night before, and

  had said to her, "Thou hast dug me only half a grave: but thou

  hast now, for a year and a day, buried me altogether in thy

  heart, and it is there a mother can best hide her child!" And

  then he gave her back her lost soul, and brought her into the

  church. "Now I am in the house of God," she said, "and in that

  house we are happy."

  When the sun set, Anne Lisbeth's soul had risen to that

  region where there is no more pain; and Anne Lisbeth's

  troubles were at an end.

  THE END

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